


these, our bodies, possessed by light

by gaytectives



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Blind Crowley (Good Omens), Denial of Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Internal Conflict, M/M, Miscommunication, Pre-Fall (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Soulmates, Torture, crowley is so soft and sad and gentle please be kind to my boy, it's a tragic backstory fic y'all, like a really really slow burn sorry guys, religious bastardization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23534923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytectives/pseuds/gaytectives
Summary: When observed with the naked eye, Alpha Centauri appears to be a single star — the third brightest light in the Earth’s sky, beaming like a lighthouse beacon behind a fog of nebulas.In actuality, Alpha Centauri is a binary system. Its two stars share an orbit so tight that they shine together as one.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 36





	1. (prologue) the a c c u s e r

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. the title is a line from ["scheherazade"](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/scheherazade-crush-by-richard-siken/) by richard siken  
> 2\. i am not religious ! i'm jewish (matrilineally) but 100% atheistic, i have been to synagogue maybe five times in my life, i've been to church like twice, and i've never studied any religious texts aside from the bits and pieces i chose for this fic. i am 100% certain i have bastardized multiple religions by writing this but i'm not trying to re-write anyone's beliefs, i'm just trying to write a painful but ultimately fulfilling gay love story because it's what i deserve ok  
> 3\. this fic was inspired by [this tumblr post](https://crvwly.tumblr.com/post/639743165817077760/sapphowasright-so-heres-my-two-cents-on) that suggests that rather than raphael, crowley was samael before falling, and then all of this happened. [this fanart](https://wheeloffortune-design.tumblr.com/post/187513374600/this-is-my-mental-timeline-of-crowleys-and) also inspired the slow-burn part of the timeline.  
> 4\. [this is the music i listen to](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6h9aOyECUm0Tf9rJeB4sb3) while writing this fic! just figured i'd share lol  
> aight that’s all folx, enjoy and follow me on tumblr dot hell @crvwly for more gay content !

On the Fourth day, Adonai, the Almighty Sovereign of the Universe, creates the stars in the sky — and She does so with a bit of help.

As She brings each vessel of the Kingdom of Heaven to life She shows them the canvas of the cosmos and allows them to make their mark on the universe.

" _Light the sky with stars_ ," She says to each being She creates, " _and the constellations you paint will tell of your journey on this plane of existence_."

The angel Samael comes into existence late in the afternoon of this Fourth day.

" _Stand before me_ ," the Almighty commands. Samael basks in the fluttering warmth of Her celestial presence and glides into the light. 

" _You are the Archangel Samael_ ," She proclaims. " _The Venom of God. You are a heavenly vessel; one of my creations, all-knowing and powerful. Your purpose is beyond your understanding now, but it begins simply_."

"Where do I begin, Adonai?" Samael asks.

" _Look upon the cosmos and the art created by the many angels who came before you_ ," She instructs. " _Find the space in which you must make a mark of your own._ "

"How will I know which space is mine?"

" _You will feel it deep within your being; the purest sensation of Rightness you may ever feel in your existence_."

Samael nods despite not yet understanding and gazes out into the vast expanse.

It's overwhelmingly beautiful, flecked at random by stars, planets, and other incredible works of art. Nebulas paint the deep with visceral colors, and streaking comets leave trails of light that make Samael's eyes burn. He squeezes them shut, ears ringing violently at the sensory onslaught.

As Samael calms and the ringing starts to dissipate, a warm, soothing hum takes its place. The sensation pulls Samael forward and he follows with his eyes still shut, breath bated. Vibrations guide him, the lack-of-air around him growing warm as he wanders. He travels on, unsure of how far he has to go and how long it will take. 

He knows when he arrives. The buzzing seeps into every fibre of his being until he can't distinguish between his own celestial energy and the source that guided him.

When he opens his eyes the sight before him is blinding, but he squints through the force of it. It's as the Almighty told him. Deep within his being, he knows he has found the part of the universe that belongs to him.

The only problem is it's already occupied.

Samael clears his throat uncomfortably. "Erm, oh Eternal One?" 

" _Yes, my child?_ "

"I believe I have found the space in the universe upon which I am to make my mark," he says.

" _And?_ "

"It seems a bit full up already."

It is, indeed, full up. A pale yellow star burns effulgently, already comfortably settled in. But, even as he squints against the vibrance of someone else’s light, he knows this is where he’s supposed to be.

“ _If this space that you are instinctually brought to is occupied, it simply means it is yours to share,_ ” She says.

Samael grimaces. “With who?”

“ _Whom._ ”

“Er—right. With _whom_?” 

“ _With whom you are intended to share it_.”

Samael glowers, displeased with the vague sparsity of the Almighty’s response, but he’s about fifteen minutes old just now and something tells him he shouldn’t start acting out yet. It might be immature of him, but it seems a bit ridiculous to share when there's so much _space_.

Still, the all-knowing Sovereign of the Universe probably knows what She's talking about.

" _Make your mark, Samael_ ," She says.

He nods and squeezes his eyes shut again. Whatever job he ends up having as a vessel of God, he hopes the training is clearer than the Almighty's guidance. How in Heaven is he supposed to take "make your mark" and turn it into a star?

With the visual barrage dampened enough by his eyelids for him to focus, he takes a deep breath and starts searching within himself.

It takes less time than he expected — he finds a core of energy deep inside of his being, hot and unstable. He cradles it, bringing it out into the black, and releases it into space. Only a small piece of it remains in him, and it is his to possess.

Samael peels his eyes open and squints at the sight before him. His star, smaller than its pre-existing counterpart, burns a dark orange color with wisps of red-hot flares shooting off its undefined edges. The flares change colors as they float away, turquoise and plum and emerald nebulas forming in their wake. Slowly, the stars churn to life, gravitating in the direction the universe intends them to.

" _Beautiful, my child_ ," the Almighty says.

"Why am I meant to share this space, Adonai?" Samael asks.

" _For a purpose greater than you can begin to know_ ," She responds. " _Ponder not on this as you begin your journey on this plane of existence. Come now, Samael; it's time to get started_."

✧✦✧

When observed with the naked eye, Alpha Centauri appears to be a single star — the third brightest light in the Earth’s sky, beaming like a lighthouse beacon behind a fog of nebulas. 

In actuality, Alpha Centauri is a binary system. Its two stars share an orbit so tight that they shine together as one. 

✧✦✧ 

Samael is sent to work as soon as his space in the universe is claimed. He is assigned a corporeal form and given instructions.

" _You are to take with you a seed_ ," the Almighty directs, " _and find the safest place in Eden for it to grow, for the tree that sprouts will bear fruit that carries the knowledge of good and evil_.”

And so he does.

He arrives on Earth, overloaded by new sensations, amazed by the blustering hot winds whipping through the desert surrounding the garden. The Principality guardian—lounging on a large, flat rock outside the walls of Eden, looking rather bored and drowsy—catches sight of Samael as he approaches and haphazardly jumps to his feet. He awkwardly wields a flaming sword that he clearly isn’t comfortable using. 

“Ah—halt!” he demands shakily, waving the sword at Samael. “Right—right where you are. Who are you?”

“I am Samael,” he responds assuredly, certain despite the fact that he has only _been_ anything for a short time. “I am one of Adonai’s creations. I come to plant the seed of the Tree of Knowledge. And you are?”

The angel relaxes a bit, seemingly accepting of Samael's explanation, and clears his throat. “I am the Principality Aziraphale,” he recites, “Angel of the Eastern Gate, Protector of Eden and Guardian of the Realm of Earth.”

Samael nods, raising his brows. “Bit of a mouthful, that.”

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. “Yes, well. I’m sure you’ll have one like it soon enough.”

They fall into silence—the first ever awkward silence, in fact. Samael feels an odd, concentrated heat pulsing deep inside his chest. 

He blinks, remembering the task at hand.

“So, can I—?” Samael gestures to the still-blocked entryway.

“Oh!” Aziraphale titters. “Oh, of course.”

He waves a hand and rocks tumble to the side, making room for Samael to climb through the wall.

“Ta,” he says, winking at Aziraphale before disappearing inside and leaving the Principality blushing bewilderedly behind him. The buzzing in his chest dulls and drifts into the background noise of the garden, newly thriving with life.

Samael wanders Eden aimlessly, exploring the vibrant flowers and thick foliage; he revels in this new concept of sensation—in the lush, thriving grass under his feet, and the cushiony, damp humidity crowding his head.

He eventually comes across a glade, encircled by a neat canopy and hidden in plain sight.

“ _Here, Samael_ ,” the Almighty commands, voice echoing softly in the back of his mind. “ _Plant it here_.”

Samael kneels in the middle of the glade, the seed cupped in the palm of his hand, and digs his free hand into the lush soil. He plants the seed, a soft smile touching the corner of his lips. He rather likes this — helping the Almighty to create a small, significant life. 

"It is done," he murmurs, afraid to speak too loudly in such a perfect place.

" _Good_ ," She says. And then She's gone again.

Samael stands and looks around the glade aimlessly. _What now?_

The Almighty didn’t elaborate on what to do _after_ planting the Tree, nor did She tell Samael who he was beyond ‘a heavenly vessel’—which, if he’s honest, sounds lacking in the personality department—so he’d like to get a better grasp on this whole _life_ thing. 

He turns and walks back in the exact way he came.

"Oh, you've finished," Aziraphale comments as Samael clambers out of the garden. "Everything go as planned?"

"Did indeed," Samael agrees. He points upward. "Any idea how I'm s'posed to get back?"

"You, you know…" Aziraphale looks up and gestures vaguely toward the sky, pointing with his sword. "Give your wings a few flaps and head up."

"Very helpful," Samael deadpans.

"It's not exactly an easy thing to explain," Aziraphale huffs. "You just _do_ it."

Samael squints at him, confused both by the Principality's ramblings and the hot buzzing sensation that has returned deep within his chest.

He brushes the entire situation off and clears his throat. "Right," he says, turning away from Aziraphale, "guess I'll _do it_ then."

He rolls his head from side to side, stretches each arm, and then releases his wings from wherever they live inside of him.

The Principality gasps and Samael turns to see his stunned face, plump hand settled in shock on his cheek.

"Wha'?" 

"I—I apologize," Aziraphale stammers, "I shouldn't gawk, I've just... yet to meet an angel with _black wings._ "

Samael furrows his brow and stretches out his wings for a better look. Surely enough, they're coal black with feathers that flash iridescently when they catch the light of the desert sun.

"Huh," Samael mumbles. "Not what I expected. But I guess it's a good look, don't you think?"

"To each their own, I suppose," Aziraphale says, clearly in disagreement but with sincere politeness.

Samael shrugs and shakes out his wings. "Anyway," he says, "nice meeting you, Aziraphale. Keep… guarding that garden."

Aziraphale chuckles. "Guarding the garden, yes," he says, "that's a rather fun sentence."

_Jeez, what a namby-pamby,_ Samael thinks, holding back a laugh. He flaps his wings experimentally, then gives it a real go and puts some power behind the motion.

And, as ridiculous as it is, the Principality was right. After a few wingstrokes Samael feels himself lifting off the ground, and then his wings instinctively cocoon him as he soars up through what feels like a celestial pneumatic tube.

It spits him out on a cold marble floor, wings askew and hair a tangled mess. He hadn't noticed how _long_ his hair was until the whistling winds nearly wrapped it around his neck like a red noose. Samael straightens himself out, tucking his wings away and trying to sort out the mess on his head, while gazing around at the highly acclaimed Kingdom of Heaven.

It's a bit bland, in his opinion — after seeing the vibrance and beauty of Eden, Heaven's white floors and pillars of light are monotonous. 

He does appreciate the lack of ceiling, however. The view is stunning.

“I am finished in Eden, my Lord,” he announces once he's put back together. 

“ _Good_ ,” the Almighty responds. “ _The Tree shall flourish with fruit, bountiful as all trees are in Eden. But the fruit it bears shall not be consumed by man when I create him, for he needn’t have the knowledge of good and evil as angels have_.”

Samael hesitates. 

“Right, you didn’t mention that part before,” he says. “The ‘shalt not be consumed by man’ bit.”

“ _It was not knowledge that I needed to impart upon you prior to your duty_.”

“But you had me plant it in like, a _big_ clearing,” Samael continues, gesturing widely. “If they aren’t supposed to eat the fruit, why put it where it’s most tempting?”

“ _To err is human_ ," She says, " _and as such, they must be given the opportunity to do so. It is of angels to impart blessings and of demons to purvey cardinal sin, but it is of humans to choose between the two_.”

“I don't understand, my Lord,” Samael says, starting to feel frustrated.

“ _You do not need to_ ,” She replies simply. “ _Tomorrow, you are to report to the Heavenly Court and pass judgement on your peers. Today is coming to an end._ "

She disappears again, leaving Samael in silence. 

"Well," Samael mutters, "that's that, I s'pose."

Unsure of what else to do, Samael gathers his robes beneath him and settles on the floor, resigned to stargazing for the night.

And there was darkness, and then light: a Fifth day.

✧✦✧ 

The Heavenly Court, Samael learns in the morning, consists only of three beings — the Archangels Michael and Gabriel, and a Dominion so _holy_ that Samael is not graced with an introduction at all. 

Their duty, Michael explains, is to pass judgement on angels who have succumbed to sin, and decide whether or not to cast them from Heaven.

Samael, right off the bat, has multiple issues with this.

"Where do they _go_?" he asks. "Down to Earth?"

"Of course not," Gabriel scoffs. "The realm of Earth is for the Almighty's next creation—humankind. We're all _very_ excited about the humans."

"The Almighty created a world within and below the Earth; a realm that does and does not exist," Michael explains cryptically. "A realm that is rampant with hellfire and sulphurous lakes, where the false prophet shall be tormented for eternity. This is where we shall cast his fellow sinners."

"The false prophet?" Samael asks.

"The fallen Cherub, Lucifer," Michael says. "An angel so consumed with pride that he desired the power of Adonai Herself. He was Her right hand, Her assistant as She created each of us. He became obsessed with Godliness, and She was forced to cast him into the realm of Hell on the eve of yesterday.

"Now Lucifer will live out eternity in hell, but his influence touched a number of others," Michael continues. "And it is our job, and now yours, Samael, to cast holy judgement upon them."

"And decide whether or not to send them careening off the edge of the Heavens."

"To put it simply, yes,” Michael sneers. "Angels who promote and partake in cardinal sin are not of Heavenly influence, and they mustn't taint the minds of others."

They gesture to an extremely uncomfortable-looking glass throne next to Gabriel. “To your seat."

Samael grimaces but obliges, lowering himself into the chair awkwardly.

_What am I doing here?_ he wonders, reaching out to the Lord for answers. _Please, help me understand._

There is, for the first time and definitely not the last, no response from the Almighty. Samael shifts anxiously, looking up.

He gazes at the nebulas spattering the vacuum of space with vibrant color. The enormity of it all shifts something within him, and it begins to sink in how _new_ and _small_ he is. He was only pulled out of thin air a day ago and now he’s got bloody ethereal _jury duty?_ Who the fuck are these angels? They clearly seem to know more than he does. 

“Bring in the first traitor!” Gabriel calls out, a bit too cheerily, snapping Samael out of his thoughts. He lowers his gaze from the sky and sees that a crowd of angels has begun filing in from who knows where, gathering to watch the trials.

Michael rolls their eyes and conjures up a slate writing tablet. The middle of the crowd parts to create a passageway. A pair of Authorities barge through it, dragging in a violently thrashing angel, and come to stand before the court. They’re immovable, even with the angel desperately wrenching their limbs to try and escape.

“Ba’al Zebul,” Michael reads off the tablet, “ _Lord of the Heavenly Dwelling_. You haven’t been behaving very heavenly, have you?”

“ _Fuck_ _you_ ,” Ba’al Zebul spits. The watching crowd titters with gasps at the profanity; some of them back away, and Samael sees one hurry out the doors. The Seraph Ba’al Zebul bares their teeth and growls gutturally, shaggy black hair sticking up at all ends and likening their resemblance to a wild animal. “Let me _go!”_

“With that attitude we may not even need a trial,” Gabriel chuckles. “Good Lord, Ba’al Zebul! What happened to you?”

“The Seraph Ba’al Zebul stands accused of worshipping a false prophet, as well as practicing and condoning sin,” Michael reads, “including the deadly sins of Pride, Wrath, and Lust.”

Gabriel tsks smugly and smirks. The look of gratification on his face makes Samael feel sick in a way he doesn’t yet understand.

“A holy Seraph accused of Wrath and Lust,” Gabriel says, feigning a sigh. “Think of the example you set for the others.”

“I hope I have,” Ba’al Zebul snaps, “I hope all these mindless freaks come to their senses and leave you bastards high and dry.”

The crowd is shifting uncomfortably; most of the angels watching are repulsed by Ba'al Zebul's language. The few who stay in place look absolutely enraptured with the trial. One of them is grinning sickly.

“ _Well_ ,” Michael says sharply. “That’s enough of that, I should think. Gabriel, your verdict?”

“Oh, guilty,” Gabriel responds immediately. “Without a doubt.”

“I agree,” Michael says. “Samael?”

Samael’s throat constricts and he swallows thickly. He still doesn't exactly understand why he's here, and if he’s being honest with himself, this entire situation seems… off. Michael listed off the accusations, but they didn't elaborate on what Ba'al Zebul _did_. Does it matter what they did, if it's known to be sin?

Michael stares at him expectantly, with Gabriel doing the same from the other direction, and the crowd leaning in with anticipation. Samael doesn’t know how else he could answer.

“Er, I agree,” he stammers.

Gabriel claps once excitedly. “There you have it! Unanimous.”

“So it is,” Michael says. “Seraph Ba’al Zebul, as commanded by the Heavenly Court, empowered by the Almighty Adonai, Sovereign of the Universe, you are hereby banished from the Kingdom of Heaven.”

There's a clamoring of righteous agreement from the crowd as the Authorities restraining Ba’al Zebul throw them forward forcefully. They stumble to their hands and knees, landing within a suddenly illuminated circle.

“Throwing us out won’t stop us,” Ba’al Zebul sneers up at the Court. “It’s too late. It’ll spread like a plague.”

Michael purses their lips and gives Ba'al Zebul's warning no acknowledgement. "May the dismay of your circumstance teach you a much-needed lesson," they say.

"Eat shit."

The Dominion — who Samael forgot was still there, lurking behind them — comes around to stand in front of Ba'al Zebul.

"For you and your kind, there is no absolution," it says, speaking as though with two voices, one high in pitch and one much lower. "Purge thy celestial light in the face of the Lord your King, Sovereign of the Universe."

The Dominion steps back and a column of light takes hold of Ba'al Zebul, lifting and suspending them in midair.

It's silent. Every member of the crowd watches in awe.

"What's happening?" Samael whispers to Michael.

"The sinner must face the Almighty one last time before being banished," Michael responds. "No more questions."

Samael purses his lips and nods. He watches as Ba'al Zebul hovers, lips moving as if in speech but completely inaudible. Their eyes, previously wild and angry, have softened; in the light they shimmer and gleam.

As quickly as the light appeared it is gone, and a spiralling tunnel of flame roars up from the floor, encapsulating Ba'al Zebul. The sound barrier from before disappears and the sinner's shrieks fill the air.

Samael wrenches his head to the side, overwhelmed with nausea. He squeezes his eyes shut and covers his ears, ineffectively dampening the sound. It's horrific — it's _ungodly._ Samael can _feel_ it from head to toe.

As suddenly as it came it's gone, as is Ba'al Zebul. It's silent again. The flame didn't leave so much as a scorch mark on the pristine floor.

"Pity," Michael says drily. "They were a powerful one. So much potential."

"It's better we weed those ones out early," Gabriel responds. "No sense in letting them think they have a chance of overtaking the Almighty."

Samael opens his eyes and stares at Michael in shock. "What was _that?_ " he croaks.

"That was a fallen angel facing deserved punishment," Michael responds.

"That was _horrific_ ," Samael says. "What kind of— of sick, ritualistic sacrifice—?"

"Not a sacrifice," Gabriel corrects. "A punishment."

"With an audience!"

Said audience has already begun dispersing, heading about their day like they hadn’t just witnessed an execution.

A mockingly sympathetic look comes over Michael's face as they smile at Samael. "I know it's jarring at first, but this is the way things are done. This is commanded of us. It's the Almighty's will."

_Then why won’t She answer me?_ Samael thinks desperately. He's so shocked by the experience that he takes Michael's answer with a silent, shallow nod.

"Why don't you take a break before the next one?" Michael offers.

"The next one?" Samael asks. "There's _another_?"

"Take a break, Samael."

Left with no other options, Samael nods and rises from his seat. 

He walks until the court is out of earshot and then some — until he's too far to be able to distinguish between the angels in the distance and he can pray in peace.

"What _was_ that?" Samael asks of the Lord desperately. " _Why_ would you make me take part in _that?"_

There’s no response. Frustrated tears gather in his eyes. "I don't understand!" he shouts. "I want to understand!"

A violent wind whips through the massive hall and Samael nearly falls to the ground. 

" _You will understand what you are meant to understand_ ," the Almighty responds, voice booming. " _Do as you're asked, Samael, and the answers will come to you._ "

"I watched an angel _burn to death_ ," he chokes out. "I had to hear them _scream in agony._ "

" _The Seraph Ba'al Zebul is not dead_ ," She says. " _They have moved on from this Kingdom. The events you experience throughout your existence shape the decisions you make. And, just as Ba'al Zebul needed to endure the experience of Falling, you needed to endure the experience of consequence and pain_."

Samael bites the inside of his lip, quite sure that _'bugger that for a lark'_ is not an appropriate response right now. 

He's angry for the first time in his existence and wants to storm off dramatically as all adolescents eventually desire to do. This runaround act is driving him mad. Not one being in this bloody Kingdom of Heaven has given him a straight answer and he feels like he's losing his mind.

“ _Some of the choices you must make throughout your existence will be difficult and distressing_ ,” the Almighty says, “ _but every one is worth it. Trust me, for I am the Lord your God, Sovereign of the Universe, and you are my creation._ "

Samael takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. It's not like he has any other options, does he?

"I trust You, the Eternal One our God, Sovereign of the Universe," he says begrudgingly.

“ _Good, my child_ ,” She responds. “ _Go, now, back to work. See the lessons that the universe offers you and seize them_.”

Samael regathers himself reluctantly and turns around, walking back to the Heavenly Court. He’ll put his trust in the Almighty, but he’s going to be grumpy about it. Something feels _wrong._

“You took your time,” Gabriel comments upon his return.

Samael bites his tongue to hold back a snarky response. He simply returns to his seat, pointedly not looking at Gabriel. 

“Thank you for returning,” Michael says.

“Of course,” Samael replies wearily, “it is my duty.”

"Fantastic," Gabriel mutters. "Can we get back to work?"

“Patience is a virtue, Gabriel,” Michael scolds. “Practice it. Authorities, please lock the court doors so that we may bring in the next sinner.”

Samael furrows his brows. “We had a whole crowd watching the last trial, why are you locking the doors now? Is this one even more wild than Ba’al Zebul?”

“Ba’al Zebul served as a warning,” Michael explains. “We had to let the others know the consequences of defying the Almighty. Now that they have seen, the remainder of the trials will take place privately. We don’t want anyone to go inflating how extensive the problem is.”

“How extensive _is_ it?”

Michael smiles placidly. “Let’s return to our work.”

“Finally,” Gabriel huffs. “Next traitor!”

✧✦✧ 

The problem is, Samael learns, indeed extensive. Some hours later, the final of 86 angels has Fallen, departing with the setting sun. On either side of him, Michael and Gabriel stand in unison and turn to face Samael.

He’s starting to feel a bit up in the air about some of the choices he made throughout the day.

Despite his unease, he contributed to three unanimous guilty verdicts after Ba’al Zebul. He watched Hellfire incinerate three angels that he played a part in sentencing. He heard their anguished screams and progressively grew more pained at heart.

And from his pain grew anger, which turned into opposition. 

During the next trial, Samael asked for evidence. It threw Michael, but they recovered and obfuscated their answer with a flash-sermon on an applicable virtue. The verdict is unanimously guilty, but only with coercion from Gabriel. Another angel Falls.

On to the next; Samael requested evidence again, and Michael came back with another vague description of the accused’s sins. 

“Pardon me, Archangel Michael, but I don’t see how the severity of the punishment matches the crime,” Samael had said when his verdict was requested. “I find the accused not guilty.”

Michael’s lip had twitched, their constantly placating smile briefly thawed from its frozen state. “And you, Gabriel?” they asked without looking away from Samael.

“Guilty.”

“It seems as though the majority rules,” Michael had said, smile back in place.

That was about the point at which Samael reached a personal crossroads; no matter his stance he would always be outnumbered by Michael and Gabriel, who clearly intended on excommunicating every angel that entered the Heavenly Court. 

He could go back to agreeing with the Archangels for the rest of the trials. It was too late for him to recover any respect Gabriel had for him — which he believes never existed in the first place — but he had a chance to stay in Michael’s good graces. 

But why would he want to stay in their good graces if he disagreed with everything they seemed to stand by?

So he ruled not guilty on the next trial. And all the rest after that. He could feel the Archangels’ frustration with him growing and it fueled him. He liked it. 

After all, he was only giving his honest opinion in the absence of real answers to his questions. Something as virtuous as honesty ought to be applauded, oughtn’t it?

To be clear, Samael doesn’t regret his not guilty verdicts. Once he started voting not guilty for everyone he no longer had to feel responsible for those that Fell, which was quite a weight off his shoulders. 

He simply feels a tad discomfited by the intensity of the energy coming from the Archangels on either side of him, and he has a feeling it might be happening because of those verdicts.

“So, is that it for the day, then?” Samael asks, trying — and failing — to mask his unease with a weary smile. 

He looks at Gabriel and his stomach drops and twists at the sight of an indulgent grin on his face. “Not quite,” Gabriel says. 

The Authorities appear from across the room in an instant, pulling Samael out of his seat and dragging him down onto the floor of the court. In a flash of panic he tries to wrench his arms out of their grip, but he’d be lying if he said upper body strength was one of his best qualities. They redouble their efforts and force Samael to his knees, digging their feet into his calves to pin him to the floor.

Samael takes a few shaky breaths, holding as still as possible so the Authorities don’t think he’s resisting. “You’re really going to do this?” he asks, looking between Michael and Gabriel frantically.

“I’m afraid we must,” Michael says. There isn’t an ounce of regret in their expression. 

“Why?” Samael asks. His position doesn’t grant him a lot of leverage to be intimidating, but he tries nonetheless. “Because I asked too many questions? Because I didn’t agree with you?”

“Because you’ve been committing heresy all day,” Gabriel snaps, “you witless excuse for an Archangel.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Purposefully impeding justice by attempting to stop sinful angels from being banished from the Kingdom of Heaven,” Michael elaborates, “is essentially acting against the holy doctrine of the Almighty. Disagreeing with us at every turn is a clear indication of the misalignment of your beliefs with ours.”

“And like you did with everyone else, instead of asking for more information to make an informed decision you’re going to get rid of me, yeah?” Samael asks. He trembles, forcibly suppressing his rage. “You don’t think it’s worth knowing _why_ these Fallen angels have beliefs that differ from yours? You don’t think it should matter whether the punishment fits the alleged crime?”

“There is only one punishment,” Gabriel states, “and it is befitting of all traitors of the Lord and cardinal sinners, two categories into which you fit perfectly. Don’t you think, Michael?”

“Alas, I do,” Michael says, smiling primly.

“I think that makes our verdict unanimously guilty, then,” Gabriel responds enthusiastically. “Authorities, if you would?”

The meatheads imprisoning Samael lift their feet from his legs and throw him forward, sending him face-first into the marble floor.

"May the dismay of your circumstance teach you a much-needed lesson,” Michael says, for the eighty-seventh time that day. “Goodbye, Samael.”

“Good riddance, more like,” Gabriel mutters.

And then Samael is imprisoned once more; not by the Authorities but by a force that lifts him from the floor until he’s floating multiple inches above it. 

The light and warmth of Adonai seeps into every atom of his construction and he feels raptured.

" _Samael_ ," She says, voice ringing sweetly in his head. “ _You have fulfilled the extent of your role in Heaven._ "

_Fulfilled the extent of my role?_ Samael wonders. _Did She plan this?_

“Why are you allowing this?” he rasps, bewildered. “Please, Lord, why are you letting this happen to me?”

_“Because it is time.”_

Samael’s lips tremble as he asks, "What is it time for, Lord?"

" _The Fall,_ " She says. " _And there will be flames and plumes of smoke blacker than the vacuum of space, and it will hurt, Samael; not because I have cast you from my Kingdom of Heaven but because only through pain can you fulfill your ultimate purpose._ "

"You keep mentioning this _purpose_ ," Samael breathes desperately, tears gathering in his eyes. "What purpose, Lord? Tell me, _please._ "

If he weren’t effectively paralyzed he would be on his knees to beg with fervor. All he wants is to _understand,_ not to dispute but simply to know _why_ this must happen. But the Almighty continues, unbothered by his pleading. 

" _Though you remain a vessel of God, my creation, you must reside amongst the Fallen. You are neither angel nor demon—a member of the heavenly host, with duties grim and destructive. You are the Accuser, the Seducer, and the Destroyer, and you play a role of great importance_.”

Tears stream down Samael's face as he feels a heat beginning to rise within him.

" _You will not remember this,_ " She says, " _for understanding what your purpose is would greatly warp the natural progression of the world you are to inhabit and influence. You will feel anger with me, and for this you are forgiven. No matter how disheartened you become you will not give up. Trust me, for I am the Lord your God, Sovereign of the Universe, and you are my creation._ "

"How can I trust You, the Eternal One our God, Sovereign of the Universe," Samael whispers, “when you are sentencing me to an eternity in Hell?” 

“ _There are many things I am capable of,_ ” the Almighty says, “ _but persuading my creations into belief is not one of them. Trust in me, or do not; your choice, in the long run, will make little effect on the outcome of your true purpose. Either way, whether you trust in me or not, know that in my eyes you are forgiven, and absolved of your sins. Go now, Samael. You have work to do._ ”

And with that white-hot flame engulfs him inside and out, and the rancid smell of sulphurous fumes coming from the smoke overwhelms him, choking him. He falls—first to his knees, and then down, down, freefalling head-first through the expanse of heaven. 

And then he shuts his eyes.

AMEN.


	2. the s e d u c e r (i.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon comes into existence.

A demon comes into existence on the evening of the Fifth day. 

He aches from the inside out, every centimetre of his being throbbing with unbelievable intensity. Horrific, scream-not-because-you-want-to-but-because-you-have-to pain — the kind that leaves you doubled over, forces you into the foetal position once you finally hit the floor, and drains the life from you. 

He doesn’t remember how he got here, but he can tell the trip wasn’t smooth-sailing.

The cold stone ground is a reprieve against his deeply singed skin. He presses his face against it desperately, choking out sobs and trembling uncontrollably. Each movement alights white-hot pain in his chest.

He doesn’t realize there’s anyone else in the room until claws grab his throat with piercing pressure and wrench his head up. His eyes fly open with a pained shout and he grabs at the attacker’s arm weakly.

“A new recruit,” the scaly red face above him says, grinning wickedly.

The demon wheezes and tries to focus on the figure’s features, but the room is whirling around the edges and he can’t take in any details.

“Give us a go at ‘im,” someone jeers nearby. “Don’t hog ‘im, Lucifer!”

“Bugger off Leviathan, I’m fucking working here!” Lucifer responds, tightening his grip on the demon’s jaw. “What’s your name, you poor bastard?”

The demon’s lips part to respond, but no answer comes to his mind. He searches, frantically and fruitlessly, to find his name within himself.

“I don’t know,” he chokes out, wincing at the burns that made it into his throat. “I can’t remember.”

“Tsk, a throwaway,” another voice chimes in. “They tossed him and didn’t even let him keep hizzz name.”

“Lord Beelzebub is right,” Leviathan chimes in, “let us take out the trash.”

“Lord Beelzebub is an _idiot_ and so are you,” Lucifer spits, glaring at his subordinates. He drags the demon into a sitting position for the others to get a better look, ignoring his cries of pain. “They threw him out whole — barely even second degree burns, these are. No missing limbs, no unsightly scars. He has _wings_ — when's the last time one came down with a set of intact wings? He’s in good condition. Like they let him float down instead of sending him through an incinerator.”

Lucifer looks back at the demon. “You remember anything from before?” he asks.

The demon reaches for something — _anything_ — that he can remember from before he woke up in Hell. He remembers the voice of Adonai, sweet and smooth like honey, and the cold, unsettling atmosphere of Heaven, but nothing more. After a few moments, he shallowly shakes his head.

“Oh, I wonder what you did, you glorious son of a bitch,” Lucifer says, a look of reverence on his face. He grins again, coal-black eyes glinting maliciously. “Did you try to attain the power of God Herself?”

“Did you spread heresy to the masses?” Leviathan asks, sneering over Lucifer’s shoulder.

“Could have been a glutton,” Beelzebub suggests.

“Or an indolent sloth!” another demon adds. 

The sinners start circling their new recruit hungrily, throwing out ideas of what brought him to them. The demon can only watch with stars swimming in his eyes, stuck in the clutches of pain and Lucifer’s ironclad grip on his neck.

“Wrath!” they jeer, “envy!”

“A prideful snob!”

“A lustful _slut._ ”

“I’ll bet he’s a killer,” Lucifer teases. The roomful of heathens laughs hysterically at the notion.

Lucifer lets go of the demon’s throat, dropping him back on the hard ground, and stomps on his chest. 

The demon coughs violently and tears start streaming from the corners of his eyes. “Please,” he wheezes between sobs, “ _please_ —”

“Quit begging, you bloody coward,” Lucifer snaps. He digs his heel in sharply and spits in the demon’s face. It’s acidic on his burnt skin and he yells, squirming violently to no avail.

“Look at ‘im!” Leviathan laughs. “Wrigglin’ like a filthy worm.”

“Nah, not a worm,” Beelzebub interjects. “A _snake_.”

“Yeah,” Lucifer agrees, lifting his foot from the demon’s chest and shoving it into his throat instead. “A nasty little snake.”

The demon chokes under the pressure and shoves at Lucifer’s leg weakly. Lucifer chuckles sinisterly and looks over his shoulder at his subordinates.

“Let’s indoctrinate him, lads,” he says. Beelzebub and Leviathan smile deviously and rush over, each taking hold of one of the demon’s legs. They look to Lucifer for the go-ahead.

“Stretch him,” Lucifer orders.

They pull, harder and stronger than the demon ever could have expected. He screams at the sensation of his legs stretching farther than they were ever meant to, the sound of his agony strangled by the foot crushing his throat. The demons watching cheer and whistle, egging them on.

He writhes uncontrollably, trying to escape this torture, trying to understand why it’s even _happening_ to him — who _is_ he? What could he possibly have done to deserve _this?_ To deserve to feel each of the bones of his spine pop out of place? To have Lucifer kick at his arms and wings until they recede somewhere inside him, bruised and battered? To have his legs twisted, one around the other, until the bones shatter and he can’t distinguish between them anymore? 

He screams until he can’t; until the only sound that leaves him is a pained hiss.

When they decide their work is finished Beelzebub and Leviathan step back, admiring a job well done. Lucifer finally lifts his foot from the demon’s throat and crouches, taking hold of the demon’s face. 

He presses his pointed thumbnail into the side of the demon’s face until it pierces his flesh, and carves a squiggled pattern into his skin.

Then, Lucifer smirks and brings his free hand to his own mouth, lathing his index and middle fingers with acidic saliva before shoving them into the demon’s eyes.

The demon hisses miserably; his eyes sting and burn, and his vision goes cloudy and yellow before eventually greying out.

Lucifer laughs maniacally and drops the demon’s head on the ground. He heads toward the exit and Beelzebub and Leviathan give the demon one last kick each before following their leader.

“Welcome to Hell, Crawly!” Lucifer calls out as they leave. “If you survive the night, report for your assignment tomorrow.”

The rest of the crowd follows and the torch lighting the cave-like room extinguishes as they exit. The demon Crawly finally, _blessedly_ , passes out.

And there was darkness, and then light; a Sixth day.

✧✦✧

The fortunate thing about being a vessel composed mostly of light is that healing is a much quicker practice than it is for humans. So long as said vessel isn’t _completely_ destroyed, it has a high chance of springing back to its usual state within a day or two. 

The Princes of Hell — Lords Lucifer, Beelzebub, and Leviathan, the first three angels to break bad — have gotten _very_ good at toeing the line between disfiguration and destruction. Practice makes perfect, after all, and Heaven has been dropping angels like flies as of late.

Hazing builds character and the Princes feel that it contributes to a number of their needs. Beating the daylights out of a newborn demon establishes authority and sets them up with realistic expectations about Hell’s bureaucratic procedures. 

It also gives the Princes an opportunity to shape the demon to their liking, quite literally. If the demon is to be successful, he’ll need an individual advantage. Lucifer is rather fond of chimeras and has a tendency toward animalistic manipulations.

Advantages must be levelled out by disadvantages, however, and hazing also gives the Princes an opportunity to make sure their subjects will never be powerful enough to overcome them. 

Though of course, the main reason the Princes are so fond of hazing is their profoundly immoral and wicked need to wreak havoc. 

Crawly, though he wouldn’t consider himself fortunate, is lucky enough to be a hazing survivor. He wakes a number of times, disoriented, achy, and unable to do much more than shift into a slightly less painful position before passing back out. He’s not sure if it’s the result of the Fall or the torture, but he can’t feel the boundaries of his limbs. It almost feels like he doesn’t have any.

He fully regains consciousness later on; he has no clue how long he’s been out. His head is pounding. He can’t see a blasted thing in the pitch black of the room. He feels _heavy._

And when he goes to try and push himself up off the ground, he realizes his addled mind was right — he _doesn’t_ have any limbs. He’s just a long, limp body.

He panics at first; _what the fuck happened?_ He can’t recall specifics, which is horrifying — shouldn’t he be able to remember where his bloody arms and legs went? _Were they torn off?_

It takes a few minutes of hectic thinking before Lucifer’s words start echoing in his mind. _A nasty little snake._ Is he a _snake?_

Crawly wriggles, testing out the features of his form. Limbless body... forked tongue... pointy fangs... 

Fucking Hell. So they turned him into a snake. Might as well happen, right?

At least now that he’s awake and has had a chance to take stock of himself, he can metaphysically feel his arms and legs again. He still has them, tucked inside his form somewhere safe. Now the question is how to get them back _out_.

It takes concentration and a fair bit of time — really, Crawly has no idea how long he lies on the dusty ground wiggling around like an idiot — but he manages to figure out how to switch back to his preferred form. 

His legs are on the numb side, so he inches himself forward on his stomach, reaching out to guide himself through the dark using the wall. He crawls until he reaches an open archway, then uses the stone wall as leverage to heave himself up, first to his knees and then his feet. He hugs the wall and catches his breath, stars swimming in his field of vision like static noise, while the feeling slowly returns to his legs.

While he’s resting he notices a warmth washing over half of his body. Frowning, Crawly shuffles toward the source and the heat intensifies as he gets closer. He also starts to see a dim flickering, but it’s still too dark for him to make out any details.

By the time he’s close enough to the heat to realize it’s a torch, his eyebrows are singed. Hissing reflexively, Crawly trips backwards and falls on his arse, swatting at his eyebrows all the way. 

While his face cools down, Crawly sits against the wall and contemplates his situation. He was only a few centimetres away from an open flame and he... couldn’t see it. 

He holds his arms out and squints, trying to find the outline of his hands. He has to bring them closer, and even when they’re right in front of his face he can only make out the general shapes, unstable and staticky. Really, he sees their movement more than anything else — his field of vision is acutely narrowed and almost nonexistent.

Swallowing thickly, he lowers his hands into his lap and takes a few deep breaths.

One of the difficult things about being an animal hybrid is that some of the physical and physiological traits may stick around even when not in animal form. There are many benefits to this, but also a number of downfalls. A demon turned into a goat, for example, might sport a brilliant pair of horns even in a humanesque form, but may also bleat unattractively in place of laughter.

Unfortunately for Crawly snakes have next to no eyesight, and Lucifer made certain that his manipulation was as accurate as possible. 

And now Crawly remembers the feeling of claws in his eyes; the acidic sting. Shattered ribs. His legs contorted. His damaged eyes well up and his hands tremble, grasping at his tattered robes like a lifeline.

The memories take his breath away, wracking his chest with desperately dampened sobs. It’s one thing to be tortured to within an inch of your life; it’s another entirely to not know _why_. 

_Why?_ he prays, tears streaming down his cheeks. _Who am I, and what have I done? Please, just tell me what evil thing I did to deserve all of this._

He waits, but the other end doesn’t pick up. Figures; it was a long shot. Why would Adonai answer the prayers of a demon?

Crawly wipes his burnt face with sooty hands and takes a few shaky breaths. He’s got to get it together. It’s already clear to him that weakness won’t allow him to survive here and, despite how badly he wants to collapse into himself and sob until he can’t anymore, it’s not a realistic option. 

Bracing himself, he pushes back up to his feet and steadies himself with one hand against the wall. 

It’s slow going at first. He has no idea where he is and he keeps intermittently losing the feeling in his legs, knees buckling and forcing him to use the wall for support. He doesn’t trust his own feet, let alone the unknown ground he walks on. 

As he creeps along the wall he starts to notice things. The static in his eyes is evolving. If he breathes through his mouth and nose at the same time he can smell things more vividly — to the extent that portions of the static start to condense into noticeably brighter shapes, and the edges sharpen with each mouthful of air. 

Along the wall there are spots of static that are lighter, dancing irregularly every few feet. As he approaches them, he feels the heat of a flaming torch. Similar things happen if he directs his attention to the ground. He doesn’t get as much input from breathing, but if he scuffs his foot instead of lifting it he feels a buzzing feedback; it bounces up from the ground and into his chest. It then rushes back out in a waterfall of static noise, highlighting the terrain around him.

“Huh,” Crawly murmurs aloud, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. It’s pretty neat, as far as being blinded goes. 

There’s a learning curve, but it’s not as hard to catch on as he expected. Sure, his vision is almost entirely occluded and he can only make out vague shapes around him, but now he’s starting to understand the way his new body works. 

When he moves he can feel this central warmth within him, shining like the torches on the wall. He hadn’t noticed it until he started paying attention to the feedback that comes from the ground. That warmth, metaphorically, shines on things as he nears them in the form of vibrations. 

His presence — the presence of that little torch in his chest — provides the feedback necessary to navigate the bigger obstacles, and his other functional senses have started filling in the smaller details. The grit of sand covering the ground in a thin layer below his feet, the acrid smoke wafting from the torches; each sensation builds upon the last and helps him paint a picture of his surroundings.

Not a very _good_ picture, of course; more of a grainy interpretive painting, but at least it’s something. It’s enough to get him down this seemingly endless hallway to a staircase which he climbs with equally painstaking pace, because he now has to learn how to go up without any depth perception. By the time he reaches the top he has to stop and lean against the wall to rest; his vessel is still recovering and the climb put a lot of pressure on his recently-shattered — and still moderately numb — legs.

“You!” someone calls out. “Look at you, up and about.”

Crawly whips his head up to find a demon marching toward him with purpose. He opens his mouth to get a better picture and regrets it immediately; an odor akin to rotting fish floods his senses and he gags.

“Let’s go,” the demon says, grabbing Crawly's arm. "They'll be happy to see you.”

 _Yeah, I'm sure they will,_ Crawly thinks, shuddering. 

He allows the demon to drag him down a cavelike hall. After all, what would fighting back do at this point? They've already turned him into a serpent mutation; if he's lucky, they'll kill him this time. 

Even if they don’t intend to kill him, being stuck down here with disgusting brutes like this one might be enough to do the trick. His smell is repugnant, his hand is slimy, and his filthy claws are digging holes into Crawly’s wrist with the force of his grip. 

The energy down here is dreadful as well — like a sourceless, unendurable depression, strong enough to encroach upon Crawly’s own energy and dampen it. Thin, greenish-black waves of it are coming off his demon guide, he realizes, and he leans away in disgust. 

The demon brings him up another short set of steps — and kicks him in the side when he trips halfway up, which is _delightfully_ helpful — and into a dank cavern. The odor is getting progressively more putrid and Crawly has to resist the urge to cover his mouth and nose. 

Distant echoes of grumbling chatter grow louder as they walk, and Crawly stops focusing on trying to see without the use of his mouth and nose and tunes into what they're saying instead.

"— have their own resident watcher Earthside, we need to do the same," a buzzing voice says. "Sending our people up on a daily basis isn't enough. If the oppozzzition is going to inhabit the planet full time then we need to, too."

Another, deeper voice sighs, shaking the ground with the force of it. "Even if you could convince one of the semi-intelligent oafs to willingly live up there, a full time resident is a risk. We can't surveil someone topside at all times, the chances for corruption are too high."

Crawly’s interest piques — _they need someone to live outside of Hell? **Permanently**?_

"That'zzz why we'll do the bloody reports like I suggested _two minutezzz_ ago."

"Watch your tone, Beelzebub."

Crawly's guide stops abruptly, nearly sending him tumbling to the ground; the demon yanks him up roughly, threateningly tightening his grip. 

He clears his throat. "Lord Beelzebub? Lord Lucifer?" the demon announces cautiously. "Duke Hastur, reporting with a new recruit."

"Enter," Lucifer calls out.

Hastur marches forward without warning, pulling Crawly with him even as he struggles to catch his footing. 

"I think you may have broken this one, sir," Hastur says, disgusted. "The idiot can barely stand."

He lets go of Crawly then, dropping him to his hands and knees. Crawly bites his lip to keep from yelping at the pain that shoots up his legs from the impact. Blood drips down his lip when he pierces it with one of his fangs.

"He just needs to get his sea legs," Lucifer says, a grin evident in his tone. "What did I call this one, Beelzebub?"

"Crawly, sir," Beelzebub responds. "The snake."

" _Oh_ , of course," Lucifer drawls, shaking the cave walls. "Up, Crawly, off your knees."

Hastur snickers; it takes everything in Crawly not to elbow him in the teeth once he's standing.

"Ah, yes," Lucifer purrs, "the one that God saw fit to send down gently. Sorry love, we had to do a number on you to put you in line.”

Crawly swallows thickly, doing his best not to cringe with the full force that he viscerally needs to. Lucifer's voice is sickly sweet; when he talks it feels like slick, toxic syrup is dripping down the back of Crawly’s neck. He wants to physically recoil, but he also doesn't want to show any weakness; if this is his opportunity to get out of Hell, he has to make a good impression. _Well._ A halfway decent impression, anyway; he gets the sense that sub-par is about as good as things get around here.

Hastur leans in closely enough that Crawly can feel his hot, repulsive breath on his cheek. "Look at your superiors when they address you, you insubordinate fool," he spits. 

"The poor thing is blinded, you idiot," Lucifer says, tone full of pity as though he wasn’t the perpetrator of that act. "Leave, stool pigeon. You're dismissed." 

With a huff Hastur reluctantly goes, grumbling unintelligibly to himself. 

"Come closer," Lucifer commands of Crawly.

Squinting uselessly, Crawly complies and carefully toes his way forward. He’s intrigued to find, as he inches closer to Lords Beelzebub and Lucifer, that they exude waves of energy in the same way Hastur did. Beelzebub’s are a ruddy orange and Lucifer’s, Crawly realizes, are so black that they soak up any available light, effectively shrouding him in darkness. 

"So, Crawly," Lucifer says, "have you remembered anything from before you Fell?" 

He feels Lucifer's gaze raking over him and he shivers, realizing suddenly how cold it is. He starts to shake his head, then stops. "No," he answers.

"No, _sir._ "

"No, _sir_ ," Crawly forces through his teeth. He plays it off with a thick cough — his throat is crackling from disuse anyway. 

"Pity," Lucifer sighs. "I would _love_ to know what makes you so special." Crawly doesn’t respond, too busy balking at his aura, so he continues. “It’s the Seventh day, darling. You slept through the Creation of Man. I can’t believe it didn’t wake you — it was simply _ground-shaking._ ”

“Speaking of which,” Beelzebub interrupts, “ _Lord_ Lucifer, we need to take advantage of this day of rest or whatever horse shit it is God is preaching to the masses up there.”

“ _Beelzebub_ ,” Lucifer warns.

“If they’re all off duty today we have a chance to get in while they aren’t looking,” they insist.

The cavern floor cracks and rumbles furiously. “ _Beelzebub!”_

“You made me your Head of the Rebellion!” Beelzebub shouts. There’s a steadily increasing buzzing of rapidly multiplying flies. “You said _I_ was to be entrusted with the planning and exzzzecution of the Rebellion as directed by the Great Plan—”

A jet of steam shoots up right next to Crawly and he lets out a yelp, stumbling to the side to avoid getting burned. 

_“YOU ARE TO OBEY THE DEMANDS OF YOUR SUPERIOR!”_ Lucifer roars. Crawly leans against a stalagmite and gawps at the suddenly furiously red aura pulsing dangerously around Lucifer. _“I AM THE FINAL DECIDER OF ALL PLANS; THE SUPREME RULER OF HELL; SATAN HIMSELF; I WILL NOT BE DISOBEYED!”_

“Erm, excuse me, Lord Beelzebub? Lord Lucifer?” Crawly interjects, officially starting his reputation of being an extremely untimely demon. The dramatic steam jets and floor cracking pause and Crawly hoists himself upright. Posture: important for a decent impression. “Sorry to interrupt, I hope I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes — did I hear earlier that you guys need someone to live topside?”

Lucifer’s energy wavers and the buzzing of Beelzebub’s flies lowers in volume. Crawly can feel them both staring angrily at him, but he pushes past a sudden stab of fear and barrels ahead. “Because if that’s what all this is about and no one else will do it I’d be willing to uh, _slither_ up there, you know?” he says with a grin, acutely aware that he’s risking his life on a gamble that the Princes of Hell will get a giggle out of some wordplay.

There’s a lengthy pause.

“You can’t just… volunteer yourself,” Beelzebub finally says. “Can he?”

“I don’t see why not,” Lucifer responds. His energy cools, fading to black again. 

“We don’t even know why he’zzz down here.”

“We don’t know why half the bastards in Hell were sent down.”

“So we should pick from the onezzz we can _trust_.”

Lucifer laughs sharply. “Beelzebub, we can’t trust _any_ of them,” he says, “and none of them are going to jump at the opportunity to spend all their time on Earth.” He looks at Crawly then, leaning over a slab of stone to get in his face. He reaches out and tips Crawly’s chin up with a finely-sharpened nail. “Except for this one. Why?”

Crawly uses all the willpower he has at his disposal to keep his expression level, struggling to stop himself from flinching away from Lucifer’s touch. “W — ah — you both seem pretty heated over it,” he stammers with a shrug, hoping he comes off as nonchalant. “Thought I might make it easier on you and offer to do the job myself.”

“What, you actually wanna live up there?” Beelzebub asks distrustfully.

“ _Lord_ no, ‘course not,” Crawly lies, feigning disgust. “Eugh, the thought of it.”

“Then why should you be the one to do the job?” Lucifer croons. He’s close enough for Crawly to catch a glimpse of his flashing grin. “You haven’t yet convinced me, darling.”

Crawly’s stomach turns uncomfortably. _Ah._ Time to go for completely undisguised flattery, then. “Lord Lucifer, I’d _hate_ to have the powers you gave me go to waste,” he schmoozes. “Give me a chance to prove my loyalty to you and your _fantastically_ evil domain.”

Lucifer chuckles, finally removing his nail from the divot it pierced in Crawly’s skin and patting his cheek roughly. “Very nice,” he says. 

He withdraws, turning to look at Beelzebub. “Fine, use the snake on a trial run,” he finally agrees. “Have Foras assign him a body. Don’t expect me to leave you in charge if this goes awry like I think it will.”

“It _won’t_ ,” Beelzebub says through clenched teeth; Crawly has a feeling their threatening tone is meant as a warning for him.

“Right,” Lucifer says smugly. “Get up there and make some trouble, Crawly. Don’t go disappointing me.”

Abject horror rises in Crawly when he imagines what the punishment for disappointing Satan himself might be. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises, smiling brightly. 

✧✦✧

After Crawly is assigned a corporeal form and told to “shut the fuck up and figure it out” when he asks for instructions on how to use it, Beelzebub brings him to Hell’s entrance.

“Don’t get injured, don’t get killed, and _don’t_ even _consider_ defecting, you bloody snake,” they warn him.

 _I wouldn’t be a bloody snake if you hadn’t helped turn me into one,_ Crawly thinks bitterly. “Sounds easy enough,” he says instead.

“Yeah, so the punishment will be severe if you bugger up.” There’s a heavy clanking of metal chains and a creaky groan from the hinges of the gates. Then Beelzebub turns to Crawly and shoves a finger into his chest. “Don’t give me any reazzzon to regret letting you volunteer yourself. Get out, and be back by sunrizzze or don't bother coming back at all."

 _Sounds like a great idea_ , Crawly considers replying. "Thank you for this opportunity, Lord Beelzebub," he says instead, stepping over the threshold. 

"Fuck off, snake."

The gate clangs shut behind him and he flinches at the reverberation. Beelzebub's energy departs shortly thereafter, and he's completely alone. 

Honestly, it's a fucking relief. Every demon he passed — or was shoved by — in the halls had wretched energy and an even worse smell. Walking through Hell was like being slowly ambushed by man-sized slugs made of shit and garbage. 

It'll be nice to get a breath of fresh air. Crawly kneels on the ground, pressing his palms against the stone. 

Foras was generous enough to describe the number of ways Crawly’s corporeal form could be destroyed (the list, at this time, was short enough to get through in just a minute; humans haven’t had time to get creative yet) though he, of course, made up for his kindness by then threatening Crawly’s life. Crawly appreciates the consistency. 

Switching between his two forms shouldn’t cause any malformations on Earth. “Though of course, we don’t have any hard evidence yet,” Foras had reassured him. “You could die immediately.”

Crawly shakes his head to dismiss the thought. Not helpful. Taking a deep breath, he screws his eyes shut, imagining himself as a snake. He pointedly does _not_ think about the feeling of his arms and legs retracting, nor the sensation of his skin scaling over like cracked desert sand.

He simply thinks of himself as he awoke — rather long, round, hopefully at least _nice_ looking — and soon he’s back to being a serpent. _Neat trick_ , he thinks, wiggling experimentally. _This’ll be a hit with the guys when I get back._

Right, step one done; now the Guardian that Beelzebub briefed him on won’t know he’s a demon, at least at first. Or will they? Hard to say — this is the first time this specific scenario is ever playing out in history, after all. Anything that happens is unexpected, to say the least.

Moving on — he’s got to get topside now. As far as he can tell, the cave ends a few yards up and there’s no opening in his metaphysical sight. 

Until there is. It appears, as far as Crawly can tell, because he expected it to be there. It’s a simple tunnel, just large enough for him to fit through. Satisfied and eager to be literally anywhere else, he starts his journey.

 _Get up there and make some trouble_ , Lucifer said, so Crawly obeys. Easier said than done, considering he now has to learn how to navigate on multiple planes of existence with no sight and no instructions. Still, he makes it up in one piece, although on his first try he ends up _outside_ the garden. 

The heat is a welcome reprieve after slithering out of the universe’s dankest cave. It’s so relaxing that he nearly forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. The sand against his scaly skin is beautiful, and it’s so _bright_ that he can actually make out a few colors (all of them shades of brown, but still). 

Just as he starts to settle into the dunes, he notices… his heartbeat? No. He can feel his heartbeat, too — another brand-new sensation; his snake form must be corporeal as well — but, no, this feeling is something else. It’s a flurry deep in his chest, pulsing irregularly. It’s soft — not uncomfortable, per se, but something _just_ too irregular to ignore. He shakes himself and continues on, burrowing back under the Earth for a second shot at getting into the garden. 

The luck of the Devil carries him through and he breaks ground inside Eden this time. The flurrying he felt out in the dunes is more concentrated now, buzzing with growing intensity as he moves throughout the garden. It's as if the feeling is guiding him, though he doesn’t know toward what. Either way, things are going rather smoothly for his first trip Earthside.

Until, of course, he comes across water for the first time and mistakes it for solid ground. Novice mistake, really — it makes a different sound and vibration than ground, it’s a rather big thing to miss. 

He only _nearly_ drowns, and recovers quite well once he manages to slither up onto a rocky bank. 

While Crawly is getting his wits back about him he hears splashing nearby and whips his head around. He doesn’t even need to reach out — metaphysically, as it were — to see the source of the noise; its energy is effulgent, impossible to miss. 

The buzzing heat in Crawly’s chest practically rings like an alarm, turning up in frequency and insistence. He pushes the sensation as far down as he can, shaking his head with frustration, and tries to interpret his surroundings. 

The being’s energy is bright and strong, so much so that Crawly feels like he's being pulled toward it against his will. He focuses on the frequency of it — quick, but not erratic — and, weirdly, the taste of it — sweet and milky — and if he focuses he can kind of make out… 

Yeah, the angel that’s supposed to be guarding this place is splashing about in the stream like an infant. 

He could be wrong, of course, as he’s new to this, but he’s got a strong feeling he’s right. He can hear humming now, interrupted by an "ooh!" of delight at something in the water.

It isn’t really going to be _this_ easy, is it?

The angel continues wading through the stream, lost to the world outside the ecosystem in the water. He doesn’t seem to notice the presence of a demonic vessel at all, snake or otherwise. Shouldn’t he be able to feel Crawly’s aura, or something like that? Crawly can feel _his_ intensely, almost like it’s coming from within himself. Curious, he pushes his energy out and probes at the angel’s yellowish glow.

But the angel doesn’t so much look away from the stream.

So Crawly continues on. Listening to Beelzebub and Lucifer shout at each other, he thought security would be a little less lax than it seems to be. If this is how things are always going to be he has a feeling he’ll do just fine in his new line of work. Even if all his coworkers are filthy, dramatic, violent heathens. 

After all, if he pulls it off… he might get to stay topside permanently. He’d be able to live on Earth for the most part and be free of the suffocating disgust he felt in Hell. 

The air here is thick with the perfumes of flora and greenery, chalky rocks and damp earth. The sun is beating down; the white noise of the river is delightful. No wonder the angel got distracted.

As Crawly gains distance from the stream the buzzing reduces in intensity and his surroundings start to feel… familiar. He doesn’t understand how, but it’s all he’s got to go on so he follows his gut. 

It leads him to a lush orchard that’s ripe with sweet-smelling fruits, little flashes of tantalizing color peeking out among the foliage. Moving through the garden is hypnotic; Crawly can feel himself losing time. 

He’s supposed to be… _doing_ something. Making trouble. He needs to figure out the finer details of that plan rather quickly. He pauses his trek to regain his bearings. 

The humans — that’s who this is really about, isn’t it? The garden was created for them. The angel is here to protect them from harm. Ergo, Crawly needs to find them. 

He shuts his eyes and focuses. There’s a rustling. Not the same as the river, and not the same as the plants swaying faintly in the breeze. He slithers off toward the sound, deep into the orchard.

He doesn’t think snakes can smile, so he doesn’t — but if he could, he would be smirking. It _is_ going to be this easy. The humans are wandering around unattended, picking fruit around the edge of a circular clearing, in the middle of which is one massive tree. 

_Bingo_. That’s got to be something. He just _knows_ — there’s something special about that tree. Why else would it be isolated in the middle of everything?

He winds through the brush, doing his best to avoid being seen yet. The human with longer hair is nearest him, her soft white aura contrasting incredibly against her dark skin. Crawly slithers up into the tree adjacent to the one the human is picking fruit from, then uses the branches as a bridge. He lowers himself slowly, partially worried about moving too quickly and scaring her away but mostly concerned that he might fall out of a tree at some point during this venture.

He climbs down until he’s nearly eye-level with the human. They don’t look much different than angels, as far as their… well, general shape and size, since that’s all the input Crawly really gets as far as vision. But their _energy_ — it’s like a creature of its own; it dances at its edges like the flaming torches in hell. It’s fascinating. 

“Oh!” the human gasps upon finally noticing him — not necessarily fearfully, Crawly notices, but with wonder. “Adam, look.”

“A beast!” the other human, Adam, remarks. _Bit rude,_ Crawly thinks _._ “Hark, Eve, the angel warned us of beasts in the garden, that they were not to be trusted.”

Figures. “ _What elssse did the angel tell you?”_ Crawly asks — don’t question the mechanics, because he doesn’t have an answer. He speaks — albeit with a heavy lisp — because he believes he should be able to. The humans both gawp at this. 

“He said that we were to live here, together, and begin to populate the Earth,” Adam says.

“And that we were welcome to gather fruit from the garden, that we only avoid fruit from the sacred Tree of Knowledge,” Eve adds. “Otherwise we should most certainly die.”

“ _You don’t really **believe** that, do you?” _Crawly jeers. It does _actually_ sound ridiculous — these things were created in God’s image, weren’t they? So why shouldn’t they have the same knowledge? Is the tree some kind of test of worthiness for them? “ _What harm would come from having knowledge?”_

“There must be some, or the angel would not have warned us,” Eve says. 

“ _Why put the mossst dangerousss fruit in the middle of the garden?”_ Crawly asks. “ _Would it not be sssafer to put it where you could not reach it?”_

“Why, indeed?” Eve wonders, looking to Adam.

“ _The fruit isss not harmful,_ ” Crawly promises — and even though he’s bluffing his way through the first temptation in history, he feels inside himself that what he’s saying is true. Not that his opinion is ultimately correct, but that this intrinsic knowledge he doesn’t remember acquiring is telling him the humans _will not_ die after eating the fruit — that it will do no more than open their eyes. “ _It bearsss the weight of the knowledge of good and evil. Thisss much now you know, you can make your choice to avoid the fruit with all the factssss in mind.”_

The humans look at one another, their juvenile energy wavering with uncertainty. 

“We should not,” Eve says, though it’s less of a statement and more of a question.

“Should we?” Adam asks. “Is it not better to know evil, so that we may avoid it?”

“The angel _did_ tell us not to trust beasts in the garden,” Eve says, eyeing Crawly cautiously. “What if he is lying to us?”

“ _What I tell you isss the truth,_ ” Crawly says, with complete honesty. “ _There isss no reassson for me to lie, asss I am not trying to deceive you.”_

The humans look to the Tree of Knowledge.

“The fruit does not _look_ as though it is dangerous,” Eve concedes.

“If it is good for eating, should we not eat it?” Adam agrees.

They wander toward the middle of the orchard and Crawly takes the opportunity to climb back up, moving from tree to tree and using the branches as stepping stones. 

Once safely nestled in the canopy, Crawly settles in for the show. This time the pounding in his chest _is_ his heartbeat, and it’s exhilarating. For the first time, Crawly gets a hit of the intoxicating power that felled the likes of Lucifer himself. He waits with bated breath as the momentum of his suggestion plays out.

Eve is the first to reach out and touch one of the fruits, recoiling but quickly realizing that its skin hasn’t tainted hers. She touches it again, more confidently this time, and then gently plucks it from its branch. Adam follows suit, grabbing one for himself.

They lift the fruits to their mouths, pausing to look at one another for reassurance before biting into the sweet flesh. 

This is where the ever fought-over technicalities of who talked who into eating the apple come into play; modern misogynists paint Eve as a temptress, an extension of the serpent’s wiles, who convinced Adam to eat the forbidden fruit and brought about the initial fall of man. In reality, though Eve was the first whose teeth pierced the apple’s skin by a fraction of a moment, they ate the fruit together.

By whom the decision was made, it doesn’t really matter. It’s equally consequential for everyone in the end. 

The orchard whispers with the movement of the wind, shifting with vigor.

Adam and Eve stare at one another, their auras dangerously still, overcome with the burden of realization. And for the first time, Crawly truly sees color — _real,_ vivid, breathtaking color — as their energies shift. Eve’s cools into a soothing blue, and Adam’s does the opposite, heating into an orange-reddish color. 

A chill runs down Crawly’s spine. Defying the likes of God Herself is a _Hell_ of a natural drug. A part of him wonders if this is what the Princes of Hell feel all the time — drunk with the power of disobeying the creator of the universe. If it is, well… Crawly can say he has an idea, at the very least, of why they defected.

Under his heartbeat, Crawly feels that buzzing again, rapidly intensifying. His internal alarm. 

The angel bursts through the orchard a moment later, with… a flaming sword? That’s what it looks like, anyway, or just a _very_ odd torch. Either way, he’s holding it like it’s something dangerous and unpredictable that he can’t trust enough to have close to his body.

“Oh, what have you done?!” he yelps, rushing up to the humans. “I told you expressly _not_ to eat from that tree!”

“Because we would die,” Eve says, accusational, “and yet we are not dead.”

“Why risk it for an _apple?”_ the angel asks helplessly.

“Because a serpent came and spoke to us the truth,” Adam says. “That upon eating from the tree we would obtain the knowledge of good and evil, as angels have.”

“But you’re _human_ ,” the angel insists, “you aren’t _meant_ to — oh, blast it, this is a _disaster_. Where is this serpent who spoke to you?”

There’s a pause.

“We lost sight of it when we went to pick the fruit,” Eve admits.

The wind whips through the garden violently and the angel’s wings unfurl to shield the humans. “Oh, dear,” he says, “that can’t be good.”

Even Crawly can see what he’s lamenting — the previously bright sky is rapidly darkening. _Whoops_ , he thinks gleefully. _Did I do that?_

“Alright, go take shelter,” the angel orders, ushering the humans back with a flap of his wings. “I’ll, uh, handle this.” He sounds delightfully unsure of how well that’s going to work out for him.

Quite satisfied with his work, Crawly descends from his tree and heads back in the direction of the hole he burrowed up through. 

“You! You, serpent!”

 _Ah, bollocks_. Crawly slithers faster, hoping some other snake is hanging around to take the blame, but the angel catches up and hops in front of him. 

“Stop there!” he demands meekly, waving his flaming sword around with extremely little skill.

Crawly slows to a stop and considers his options. There’s _definitely_ a flaming sword looming over him, he can tell for sure now, but the angel doesn’t seem up to using it; he might be able to dodge through his legs and make a break for it. Still, it _is_ this buffoon’s job to protect the garden and he might be willing to slice Crawly’s head clean off to do it.

 _Better safe than sorry_ , he thinks, and wriggles backward so he has enough space to switch over to his corporeal form.

The angel gulps audibly, forcing himself not to react the way one naturally reacts upon seeing a snake turn into a man-shaped being for the first time. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “You. You’re a demon?”

“That’s what they tell me,” Crawly replies, pushing himself to his feet. “I take it you’re an angel.”

“Yes, obviously,” the angel huffs. 

He falls silent and Crawly waits a few beats before realizing the angel has run out of ideas. “Right, well,” Crawly says, “sorry for the trouble, but duty calls and all that.”

“That’s all you have to say?” the angel asks expectantly.

Crawly huffs a laugh. “What, you want me to _actually_ apologize?” he teases. 

The angel, missing the taunt entirely, sharply nods. “ _Yes_ , I believe I do.”

“Ngh, _no_ ,” Crawly says, crossing his arms, “I don’t think so; I didn’t do anything to merit an apology.”

“You just tempted the first two humans alive into doing the _one_ thing the Lord commanded they not do!” the angel whinges.

“Listen angel, all I did was tell them the truth,” he says — also a truth: he’s rather good at this whole honesty thing. “They chose to do what they did with it. I didn’t even suggest that they eat the damn fruit, I just told them what it actually _was_.”

The angel opens his mouth to retort, then shuts it again; his energy starts to deflate around him. “I… Well, I suppose that’s... but — but no, the Almighty _must_ have had a _reason_ for them not to know the truth!”

Crawly shrugs. “Maybe so. I, for one, don’t see what’s so bad about making sure someone has all the facts before they make a decision.”

Seemingly at a loss for words, the angel groans weakly and lowers his sword. There's a jarring flash of light, followed by a deep rumble in the distance. 

“That doesn’t seem good,” Crawly comments.

“No, it doesn’t,” the angel agrees reluctantly, “and it’s _your fault_. Sort of. Well, I _was_ supposed to be watching them more closely — oh, gosh, this isn’t going to go well.”

“Yeah, seems like high time for me to get out of dodge, so…”

“Oh, just _go_.”

Crawly takes a step back, then hesitates. “You’re not gonna… I dunno, kill me with your flaming sword once I turn around, are you?”

The angel tilts his head, confused. “Why would I do that?”

Crawly decides not to test his luck any further. “No reason,” he says. “I’ll just be going.”

He turns to leave and immediately trips over a protruding tree root he hadn’t been paying close enough attention to see, falling face-first into the grass.

“Are you alright?” the angel asks.

“Yep!” Crawly replies, scrambling back to his feet. _Probably had that coming_. “Meant to do that.”

He decides to travel as a serpent for now to ensure minimal corporeal damage. The sky flashes menacingly as he slithers away. As far as beginner’s luck goes, he’s pretty sure he’s used up all of his now. He needs to get a better handle on walking or next time his head will be ever-so-kindly removed. 

Although probably not by that angel; poor sod doesn’t seem quite up to snuff. 

✧✦✧ 

The entire ordeal with the humans is a disastrous success; the outcome is far better than anything Crawly could have hoped for. The first two humans got expelled from the Garden of Eden for discovering cardinal sin and he barely had to lift a finger. Lucky, that tree in the middle of the garden. If this doesn’t get him assigned to Earth permanently, he’ll eat his own tail.

Though, the whole scenario feels more strategic than lucky — a massive temptation with a death threat slapped on top? That's just asking for corruption. Seems to him the Tree of Knowledge should've been planted more securely if the humans were truly never meant to eat its fruit.

Curiosity drives Crawly to push his luck as he told himself he was finished doing, and he follows the buzzing light of the angel's energy to the top of Eden's walls. After all, this is uncharted territory. Could be interesting, and it beats going back to Hell before he has to.

The angel — the Principality Aziraphale, he learns on top of the garden wall — doesn't understand his point about the placement of the tree. He was probably told no differently than the humans, with regard to their ultimate fate if they ate the forbidden fruit. Makes sense. A lying leader breeds naïve soldiers; so naïve they don't automatically assume the worst even of demons, apparently.

Although… 

Crawly does have to admit there's something about the angel that intrigues him. Skiving off duty to play in a stream and giving away an ethereal flaming sword to the humans without a second thought? Mental, for an angel. 

And Crawly nearly laughs in disbelief when Aziraphale reflexively lifts his wing to shield him as the first rain begins to fall. Part of him wants to pull away; not an instinctual feeling, but a tactical one. He shouldn't be interacting with the opposition this much — it could get him killed or worse. 

But the _rest_ of him wants to wrap himself around the angel and bask in his energy like he did in the desert sun. When Aziraphale lifts his wing, waves of gentle heat laced with pure affection emanate from him, clouding Crawly's mind and pulling him in. 

Maybe it's a celestial defense mechanism, softening the demonic wiles of the enemy to allow the angel to overpower him. However, after not being beheaded earlier and talking to the angel for only a few minutes up here he's doubtful of ill intentions.

Is it sheer naïveity, or is the angel so recklessly compassionate that he actively chooses not to kill his hereditary enemy? You have to be reckless to put a celestial weapon in the hands of humans who, a few hours ago, would never have known what a sword could do to them if they didn't know the truths about good and evil. A sensible vessel of the Lord would have let the humans get smited and start all over, but all Aziraphale is worried about is whether they'll be okay and whether or not he _contributed to meddling with the ineffable plan_ , as he tells Crawly.

It's odd behavior for a Heavenly footsoldier. Crawly doesn't know how he knows that, since he can't remember anything from before, but he _does_ know — maybe instinctively — that something about this particular angel is off. 

_Maybe,_ Crawly thinks, plucking an apple from a tree in passing as they search for cover from the storm, _for the better._ As ridiculously stuffy as Aziraphale is, he also seems genuinely interesting. Crawly wouldn't mind messing with him on the regular; it might be fun, even.

They find a stone alcove back on the ground and Crawly magics up a fire to huddle around; the rain is proving itself to be wet and cold and he is _not_ a fan. Probably the point, but he's bitter about it.

He sits next to the fire — practically _in_ it — and forces himself not to shiver while he dries off. Aziraphale sits opposite him, not nearly as close to the flames, slumped in pathetic defeat.

"I'm such a fool," he laments, scrubbing his hands over his face. "I've ruined the Almighty's day of rest, the humans have been _literally_ thrown to the wolves — "

"And lions," Crawly adds unhelpfully.

" — and now I'm sitting in a cave with the _demon_ who caused it all, just waiting to have my Watcher status revoked," he moans. 

"Right mess of a day for you."

"All the Almighty said to me was to expel the humans from Eden due to their indiscretions," Aziraphale continues, ignoring him. "No further instructions. No suggestion of what might happen to them."

"Sounds like She's unconcerned," Crawly comments, sniffing. "Maybe you should follow them."

There's a violent crack of thunder and Crawly can feel Aziraphale glaring daggers at him. 

"Easy for _you_ to say," the angel huffs. "I'm sure congratulations are in order, you must be very pleased with your work."

"Can't say I'm not," Crawly says. "Rather a good day for me, my first assignment was a smashing success."

Aziraphale shakes his head, sighing heavily. "What if they pull me from my Earth post?" he asks into the fire, voice trembling. "I was supposed to protect the humans from harm. They must be searching for someone to replace me down here, but I was the only volunteer…"

 _Huh,_ Crawly thinks. Funny that the angel was the only volunteer upstairs and he was the only one downstairs. _I'm up here because I hate it down there. I wonder if he volunteered for the same reason_.

"You really think this is gonna get you benched?" Crawly asks instead of pursuing his internal questions, raising a brow. "You _must_ be meant to follow them."

"Begging your pardon?"

Crawly snorts. "Come on, why would they pull you from Earth duty if the humans are still alive and no one else wants to be down here?"

"Because I… failed," Aziraphale says, sounding unsure of his answer.

"You think you're a failure just 'cos the humans disobeyed God and got tossed out the garden?"

"Yes, obviously, I was meant to _prevent_ them from doing that."

"Yeah, sure," Crawly says. He reaches into his robe and pulls out the apple he grabbed earlier, rubbing his thumb over its flawless skin. Red as blood. Colour is so much more _vibrant_ up here. "Just like the humans were probably meant to stay here forever, right? You're missing the bigger picture, angel."

"I don't think I follow," Aziraphale says warily.

“There’s literally an _entire world_ out there,” Crawly insists, waving the apple at him. “Why would God even build it if She planned on trapping the humans in here all along? The same reason She put the Tree of Knowledge smack-dab in the middle of an open clearing like a beacon for sin. They were _meant_ to get out and _you_ must be meant to follow."

Aziraphale sighs haughtily, rubbing his face. “I mean, I knew they would _eventually_ get out, so to speak, but I thought it would be less... chaotic. And demon free." He pauses. "Do you think... did the Almighty intend it to happen this way?”

Crawly shrugs, biting into his apple curiously. “ _Eugh_ ,” he grimaces, spitting it out and tossing the fruit over his shoulder. “Definitely not worth all the trouble.”

“She told me that I was to watch over the humans,” Aziraphale continues, ignoring Crawly’s antics. “Protector of Eden, Guardian of the Realm of Earth. I’m so _confused_.”

“So stop thinking about why it happened and focus on what you’re going to do next,” Crawly snaps, growing tired of the angel’s griping. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but God doesn’t tend to answer questions.”

“Oh, what do you know?” Aziraphale huffs. His energy ebbs, starting to recede into itself, and for whatever reason Crawly wants to chase it with his own.

“If I was you I’d just go after the humans and guide them,” Crawly continues. “You know, _actually_ be a guardian?”

“You’re a demon, you’re _nothing_ like me,” Aziraphale says, shaking his head. “I don’t even know why I’m talking to you, you’re probably trying to muck things up for me.”

“All I did was tell the truth,” Crawly reminds him defensively. “And if letting the humans know that sin exists is all it takes for them to commit it, it sounds like they’re even worse off than my lot.”

Aziraphale goes quiet, staring contemplatively into the fire. 

“ _And_ ,” Crawly continues, “if this species of idiots was intended to have a guardian angel guide them through the beginning of life on Earth, I’d imagine that guardian should follow them instead of sitting around waiting for orders."

 _Shit. Probably shouldn't be giving the opposition advice on how to recover from my sabotage._ He stands, brushing off his robes. "As for myself, the sun has gone down and I have a report to give by morning," he says. "My smashing success ought to get me posted here permanently, thank badness."

"You'd rather be on Earth than in Hell?" Aziraphale asks curiously.

"Not exactly paradise down there," Crawly grumbles. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, an ache starting to creep into his corporeal form. Even though this body endured none of the physical torture his celestial vessel did, he can feel pain in his newly-healed legs. "Anyway — nice meeting you, Aziraphale."

A striking, sudden sense of familiarity hits him. _Why does it feel like I've said that before?_ He can feel that Aziraphale's energy has sharpened too, like he noticed it as well.

"Yes — yes," Aziraphale stammers. "Um, nice meeting you as well, Crawly."

Crawly shuts his eyes like it might trap the sensation so he can dissect it, but the feeling fades. He opens them again, disappointed. "Right. Sure I'll see you around, angel."

Shaking himself, Crawly morphs back into his serpent form and hurriedly burrows downward. He needs to be back by sunup, which won't happen if he stays here with the angel, giving him righteous ideas of how to be recklessly good. 

He really hopes nobody downstairs saw that.

✧✦✧

"Cutting it fucking close, aren't we?" Beelzebub greets as Crawly emerges from the Earth at the gates of Hell. 

" _My deepessst apologiesss, Lord Beelsssebub,"_ Crawly hisses, slithering right through the wrought-iron bars. The odorous air washes over him as soon as he passes through and he already regrets returning.

"Make yourself decent," Beelzebub orders, "we have to report to Lord Lucifer immediately."

Unsure of what else they could possibly mean, Crawly switches to his celestial form and dusts himself off. 

"Let'zzz go," Beelzebub says. "Do I bloody need to pull you along like I did before?"

"No, Lord Beelzebub," Crawly says. "I can follow you on my own." He needs the walking practice anyway, might as well work on it.

"'Bout time," Beelzebub huffs. They turn and stride down the hall without another word, leaving Crawly scrambling after them to catch up.

Beelzebub leads Crawly back toward Lucifer's sanctuary; the halls are noticeably more populated than before Crawly went topside. It had to have been less than twelve hours he was gone. 

_Damn, they really are just tossing everyone they can down, aren't they?_

The demons, new and old — comparatively — shoot distrustful glares his way as they speed walk through the crowds. Crawly can feel their filthy energies probing the edges of his own and it makes him squirm. 

That and the fact that he can't tell if Beelzebub is satisfied with what happened topside. Are they displeased, leading him to a sentencing of his worst nightmares? How much do they know? Did they hear _everything_ , or just what happened during the actual temptation? 

All that was explained to Crawly before he went up was that Beelzebub and Lucifer would review his work and make a decision. He has no idea how close attention they were paying the entire time. _Fuck_ , he should have left right after the temptation but _no_ , he wanted to spend as much time up there as possible and ended up chatting it up with an angel.

He doesn’t get much time to overthink his actions; the farther they walk, the more pervasively Crawly can feel Lucifer’s energy. It’s grown more powerful already, creeping out of his cavern and into the halls. At least he doesn't feel angry; that's probably good, isn't it?

Crawly shivers, missing the heat of Earth’s sun.

"Permission to enter," Beelzebub requests as they approach the cavern's entrance.

"Granted," Lucifer booms from within.

They continue inside and Crawly, once again, comes to stand in front of Satan himself.

"So, Crawly," Lucifer greets. "Your little mission was a success, I take it?"

"Yes, Lord Lucifer," he answers. "Smashingly so. I tempted the humans into defying a direct order from the Almighty."

"Eating the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge," Lucifer says. "How did you know it would work in our favour?"

"Shot in the dark," Crawly lies, not wanting to admit he somehow already _knew_ what eating the apple would do to the humans.

"You're a risk taker," Lucifer purrs. "I like it. Well done Crawly, I have to say I'm surprised. I didn't think you had it in you."

"Thank you, Your Lowliness," Crawly says.

" _So?_ " Beelzebub says. "The trial run was a succeszzz. Are we going to put someone on Earth full-time or not?"

"Oh, if you _insist,_ " Lucifer sighs. "I expect weekly reports to ensure the snake isn't defecting."

"He'll end up without a head if he doezzz," Beelzebub buzzes threateningly.

Crawly bites his lip, not wanting to speak out of turn and fuck this up but _desperately_ needing confirmation that he's receiving full-time Earth credentials. What did the angel call it? Watcher status. He needs to know he won't have to spend his days rotting down here with everyone else.

"He's only to attend to assigned business," Lucifer continues. "He follows direct orders from you, and you get them straight from me. I'll not have him fucking up the Great Plan by going off on his own."

"Yes, yes, got it," Beelzebub insists.

"Remember, Beelzebub," Lucifer rumbles, "it's _both_ your heads if he fucks up."

"I'm well aware," Beelzebub says through gritted teeth.

"Er — pardon me, Lords," Crawly pipes up, unable to bear it any longer. "My apologies, just wanted to clarify — will I now be residing on Earth?"

"Why, it's your lucky day, Crawly," Lucifer says, flashing a toothy grin. "Yes, you will."

Pushing down a joyous shout, Crawly nods. "Sounds dreadful," he says instead. "I'm looking forward to serving you, Lords."

“Great,” Beelzebub mutters.

Lucifer turns to Beelzebub. “Show him the ropes and send him down to demon resources to sign a contract.”

“Love to,” they say through clenched teeth. 

“Perfect,” Lucifer purrs. He turns back to Crawly and flashes him a grin. “Have fun, Crawly. But remember — no amount of fun can outweigh the pain of your death should you consider defecting and betraying me.”

A chill runs down Crawly’s spine. _How much did he see? How much did he **hear**?_ “Yes, Your Lowliness,” he says, forcing his tone to stay level.

Lucifer chortles. “Oh darling, we’re going to do such fantastically evil things together.”

“Great, congrats,” Beelzebub interjects. “Let’zzz go, snake.” They turn and take off immediately, marching back down the hall. 

“Yes, Lord Beelzebub,” Crawly says. He goes to follow, then turns back to Lucifer. “Thank you for this opportunity, Lord Lucifer.”

“Keep the arse-kissing to a minimum, Crawly, I don’t have time to take all your overdrawn compliments with an air of grace,” Lucifer says. “Don’t fuck me over.”

Crawly swallows hard, stomach churning. “Yes, Lord Lucifer,” he chokes out, before hurrying after Beelzebub, who's already made it to the end of the hall.

As he rounds the corner at the end of the hall, a swarm of flies hits him and pins him to the cave wall like a violently buzzing hand. Bugs fill his mouth and throat and he gags, choking on them. 

“Listen, snake,” Beelzebub says, their voice petrifyingly steady. “There’zzz something off about you. I don’t trust you, and not in the same way as the otherzzz. I don’t know why, but you'd better prove me wrong for your own sake. This may be Lucifer’zzz war, but it’zzz _my_ rebellion.” 

Crawly nods, coughing, and the flies disappear as suddenly as they came. He gasps and dry heaves, trying to downplay his reaction as much as possible.

“Pathetic,” Beelzebub mutters, and continues marching away. “Let’zzz go, we have fucking paperwork to fill out.”

Crawly follows them once more, still catching his breath and wiping tears off his face as he goes. 

_It’s almost over,_ he tells himself. _You’re almost out._

✧✦✧

The terms and conditions of Crawly's Watcher status and permanent Earth residency are read aloud to him by an exceptionally disinterested notary.

"Crawly, hereby referred to as ‘The Eternally Damned,’ agrees to influence mankind toward cardinal sin and work against agents of Heaven, hereby referred to as ‘The Opposition,’ on behalf of Lords Leviathan, Beelzebub and Lucifer, hereby referred to as ‘The Profoundly Immoral and Wicked Princes of Hell,’" she drones on. "The Eternally Damned agrees to the assignment of permanent Earth residency with once weekly reports via physical presentation to The Profoundly Immoral and Wicked Princes of Hell."

Crawly nods. "I agree—"

"Shut your insubordinate mouth and wait to speak until you are addressed," the notary interrupts, somehow monotonous _and_ infuriated.

"Imbecile," Beelzebub mutters.

With a heavy sigh, she continues. "The Eternally Damned agrees to compensation in the form of not being physically tortured or boiled alive in Holy Water."

Crawly grimaces. _Sounds about right_.

"Should The Eternally Damned fail to secure souls for the Profoundly Immoral and Wicked Princes of Hell, or should he commit treason or consort with The Opposition, he shall be subjected to all forms of physical torture available and then eradicated via Holy Water," she says. "Does The Eternally Damned agree to the aforementioned terms and conditions?"

Crawly waits a beat, unsure if he’s allowed to speak yet. The notary clears her throat expectantly.

"Er — yes, yeah," he stammers. "I agree."

"I don't care," the notary says. "Sign here."

She taps the desk and Crawly is able to make out the general outline of a paper and the spot she's pointing to. 

"With…?"

"Your finger, you brainless twat.”

Biting back a response, Crawly nods and presses his finger to the paper. _What the Heaven is my signature supposed to be?_

Shrugging, he traces the shape of a snake with his nail and it sparks to life, flames flickering along the curves. _That works._

“Now you, Lord Beelzebub,” the notary says.

Beelzebub signs and the notary stamps the contract, then tosses it into a large pile on the floor.

"Great," she says. "Get out of my office."

✧✦✧

"Meet back here every seventh day by dusk," Beelzebub says as they once again approach Hell's gates. "Assignments might come up in between — we'll uzzze all means necessary to contact you. You _will_ answer, or we'll be forced to send someone to retrieve you."

"Yes, Lord Beelzebub," Crawly responds.

The chains clink and Crawly waits with bated breath. _You're almost there, you're almost there,_ he chants in the safety of his own mind.

The gate groans open and Crawly steps over the threshold.

"Go find where the humanzzz have settled after being expelled from Eden," Beelzebub orders. "The humanzzz are Heaven'zzz pawnzzz and we need to corrupt them to use against the oppozzzition."

"Yes, Lord Beelzebub," Crawly repeats. "I won't disappoint you."

"Ugh," Beelzebub mutters, "leave, snake."

The gate clanks shut again and Crawly smiles, kneeling down so he can shift his form. 

Maybe life as a snake won't be so terrible with an entire planet on which to roam free. That's about the best deal a demon could bargain for.

✧✦✧

The sun washes over him as he emerges from beneath the dunes. He inhales deeply, taking in the salty taste of the desert wind; the sting of the sand it whips into his face. 

Were he not currently a snake, he would have teared up.

 _Right_ , he thinks, setting his reverence aside. _Now to find the humans_. 

He flicks his tongue inquisitively, searching for the humans’ earthy, musky scent. With the wind shifting so intensely he can't pick up on it from whatever distance the humans are.

 _Damn,_ he thinks, _which way did they wander off uselessly last night?_

Stumped, Crawly squints against the sunlight and considers his options.

And then a little, pulsing buzz in his chest reminds him of one he'd nearly forgotten.

 _Gotcha._

Crawly takes off in the direction the buzzing is pulling him, letting instinct guide him. 

He isn't sure how fast humans can move, but he'd guess that he's faster, especially as a serpent. It only takes an hour of travel before the buzzing goes from background noise to incessant proximity warning.

Ten or so kilometres from Eden, right on a riverbank, the humans have set themselves up a smart little encampment to live in. Crawly is impressed — they only got kicked out a day ago and they've already set themselves up a shelter made out of what seems to be tree branches and a lion pelt.

And a few metres down the bank is another shelter, similar to the humans', but Crawly can tell it's been conjured. Near it, the pulsing glow of the angel's energy is resting against a tree, supervising the colorful auras of the humans wading in the river.

So, his advice must have struck a chord — Aziraphale went after Adam and Eve in the end.

Chuffed with himself, Crawly slithers behind a tree and shifts into his human form. He stretches, cracking his neck, and sighs contentedly.

He makes his way toward the angel, breathing in the smell of the river and the damp ground. The mud squelches beneath his feet and the sound of it catches Aziraphale's attention as Crawly draws near.

“Oh — Crawly,” Aziraphale greets nervously. “I see you’ve returned to Earth.”

“Aziraphale,” Crawly says. “I see you decided to follow the humans. 

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale says, “someone needs to look out for them.”

“Mm, you must have gotten some sage advice from a wise being.”

“Closer to impulsive drivel from my hereditary enemy, but… I appreciated the push, no matter how malicious the intent driving it was.”

Crawly snorts. “Don’t overthink it, angel.”

“Excellent, more prudent counsel from someone I can wholeheartedly trust,” Aziraphale deadpans. Crawly snickers. “So… you’re up here for good, then?”

“That’s what my contract says.”

“A contract? That’s more organization than I expected of you all.”

“That’s the extent of it,” Crawly says, ignoring the bitter taste in his mouth at Aziraphale’s generalization. “And you? Staying Earthside?”

“So it would seem,” Aziraphale says. “I suppose we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, then.”

“I suppose so,” Crawly says. He turns and extends a hand to the angel, smirking. "I'm looking forward to working against you."

Cautiously, Aziraphale returns the gesture, his plump hand barely gripping Crawly's with any pressure. "I can't quite call it a pleasure, but it could be much worse, I'm sure."

Crawly snorts, dropping his hand. "You flatter me."

Through the light of Aziraphale's aura, Crawly sees him smile hesitantly. Then he clears his throat.

"Right — begone then, _foul_ _fiend,"_ Aziraphale says, puffing up a bit.

Crawly raises a brow. "Bit over the top, don't you think?"

"Oh, go on," Aziraphale huffs, waving him away.

Crawly rolls his eyes and hisses at him for show, flickering his tongue menacingly, before winking and turning to saunter away.

 _You've got one thing right, angel,_ he thinks. _It could be much, much worse._

But this? This he can work with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay fam, this is all i have written so far but i'm slowly chugging along i promise! this is a spell to increase my productivity; kudos to charge, comments to cast 😂 lmao
> 
> shoutout to my friend jack [columbiasgreatestminds](https://columbiasgreatestminds.tumblr.com/) for beta reading and editing these first two chapters for me! love you pal!


	3. the s e d u c e r (ii.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh, beautiful work, Crawly,_ a deep voice unexpectedly purrs in his mind a moment later. _Perhaps sending you to Earth was the right move after all._  
>  From the same direction as before, a different scream — a haunting one, more pained than those of the tortured in Hell.  
> The blood drains from Crawly’s face. _Th-thank you, Lord Lucifer,_ he replies, scrambling to his feet. _It is my duty to your Hellish domain._  
>  “Bad,” he whispers nervously, running — as awkward and painful as it is — toward the source of the wails. He already knows where they’ll lead him. “Oh, this is gonna be _bad_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CHAPTER CONTENT WARNING:** MINOR CHARACTER DEATH
> 
> joe biden is the president-elect and the burden of the election has lifted my writers block with it can i get a hallelujah

**3990 B.C.**

The sun peeks over the horizon and winks at Crawly, signalling the impending day and beckoning him back to the east.

 _Good morning_ , he thinks, tongue flicking contentedly. _Time to head back home._

He slithers down from the canopy he’d been nestled into and onto the cool silt at the tree’s base. He gives a full body shiver, then forges ahead.

The sensation of the dunes heating with the rise of the early-morning sun has easily become his favourite over the past few years. The Earth is full of such beautiful sensations. Wind, for instance — air washing over him in waves, a welcome reprieve during midday desert heat. It shifts the world around Crawly; sand and plants give off vibrations as the breeze displaces them and make it easier for him to navigate the world.

At first, he didn’t dare stray from the humans’ encampment. After all, they were the only two — soon to be three — humans on Earth. Crawly’s only job was to serve as the angel Aziraphale’s opposition, and Aziraphale’s sole focus was the humans.

However, as it turns out, humans waste an inordinate amount of time doing a whole lot of nothing. Eating, drinking water, eliminating waste and resting take up at least a third of their time. They’re pathetically slow creatures, honestly, but it makes for easy work.

And since the humans need minimal supervision when they perform their daily mundanities, Aziraphale isn’t much on his guard during those hours — which is something else entirely; an angel slacking on the job? What a scandal. Crawly can do what he needs to do as instructed by Beelzebub without Aziraphale noticing for the most part. And then he has more time to himself than he knows how to handle.

He’d started out exploring close to the encampment so he didn’t lose track of it, but picked up on ways to track which direction he was travelling and quickly pushed his boundaries. Turns out there are a _fuckton_ of animals in the desert that like to try and eat snakes. He’s not exactly proud, but he got good at fighting them. The lions are the worst. Like bloody Hellcats they are; one of them tried to play with him like a piece of string. 

Aside from the Earth’s natural attempts at discorporating him, however, there was nothing stopping him from exploring the world at large. That is, until more people showed up.

At first, it was just Adam and Eve and their spawn, Cain. Then another one, Abel. 

But about a year after Abel’s birth, on his return from a night of exploration, Crawly stumbled upon a new pair of humans and their offspring setting up a dwelling not far from the original humans. 

“Did the big shots upstairs send down another batch?” he’d asked Aziraphale later that morning.

“I’ve no idea,” Aziraphale had admitted reluctantly. “I must have missed the departmental memo.”

“Yeah,” Crawly lied, “I’m sure that’s it.” 

They’d shrugged it off, Aziraphale citing ineffability as an explanation, and gone about their day. A few days later, another pair of humans arrived and joined the encampment; and then another, and another.

Suffice it to say, they multiplied rapidly and Crawly had to increase the amount of time he spent with them. Each pair of humans had anywhere from two to nine offspring, and they just kept going. The nine month incubation period is impractical, if you ask Crawly, but then again he barely understands the “breeding” thing as it is.

He’d worked up the energy to ask Aziraphale about it one night. “So, what is it exactly they’re doing?”

“Begging your pardon?” Aziraphale had replied.

“Y’know,” Crawly said, plopping down on the ground and reaching out wordlessly for the alcohol he could smell on Aziraphale. Alcohol was a newer human discovery, and a very good one indeed; that they could both agree on, which is a major step for a demon and an angel with little in common. “Whatever it is they do with their mouths and genitals when I suggest philandering. I’m a bit fuzzy on the details.”

Aziraphale handed him the drink without complaint. “Are you referring to sex?” he’d asked.

“I must assume so,” Crawly responded after a hearty gulp.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well, it’s a human act of love and desire,” he explained, “ultimately intended for reproduction. Often it involves a penis and a vagina for reproductive reasons, but as I understand it any combination of genitalia and other body parts can come in contact during sex. And it’s quite a pleasurable act, so that’s where the sin comes from. What did you _think_ they were doing?”

Crawly had scoffed and shoved the wine back at the angel. “Beats me. I didn’t get a crash course on what actions my suggestions were capable of spurning. _My_ employers aren’t big on job prep beyond hazing.”

“No, mine either,” Aziraphale sighed. “But, I am a fan of independent research.”

Crawly quirked a brow. “What, you’ve…?” He’d trailed off, making an indecent gesture and winking.

“Wh — Heavens, no!” Aziraphale stammered. “With _whom_?”

“That’s between you and the Lord,” Crawly snickered.

“ _No_ ,” Aziraphale repeated, gesturing for emphasis. “As I said, independent _research_ , by which I meant _texts_ written by the Hands of God on general human anatomy and physiology, mental and physical health, and spirituality.”

“Sounds lengthy and boring,” Crawly said.

“One would hope,” Aziraphale said wistfully, “but the texts were strikingly sparse for a comprehensive overview on an entire species. The general information I found on sex stated that the motivation behind the act is what’s sinful, not the action itself.”

“So when they do it to make more humans it’s alright, but when they do it for fun it’s not?”

“Not necessarily. Humans in love, for example, may have sex simply to be intimate with one another, and the text stated that was fine. And sexual acts can involve two humans, or just one, or far more. However, it also said that desire for power can be a driver behind sex, and that strong lust can practically override a human’s rational mind and push them to act unpredictably and sometimes violently.”

“All over a bit of mashing and poking?” Crawly asked.

“The text described it as a stimulation that builds upon itself until reaching a moment of climax that leads to temporary euphoria.”

“Temporary euphoria. Must be bloody good.”

“I should hope so,” Aziraphale said, a bit too eagerly. “If they’re to be eternally damned for it, it ought to be good. Speaking of damnation, how are you able to tempt humans into doing things that you don’t even understand?”

Crawly shrugged. “Temptation’s a temptation,” he said. “It’s just a suggestion without any real specifics. A little seed of doubt I plant that their minds nourish into full-blown sin. I don’t _have_ to understand exactly what it is they want, I just have to be persuasive.”

“Interesting,” Aziraphale had murmured.

“Is it?”

“It’s just that I take quite the opposite approach,” he continued. “I feel it’s vitally important for me to understand what whims and desires drive them to sin, because I genuinely don’t understand. To know God is to know true, unconditional love. What could be worth losing it?”

That conversation had ended with Crawly snapping that unconditional love is also implied to be irrevocable so God clearly had some learning to do, and with Aziraphale remembering that he was engaging in casual conversation with a demon and throwing a fit before they stormed off to their respective dwellings. 

Still, they adjusted to each other faster than Crawly expected. Despite being _hereditary enemies,_ as Aziraphale occasionally reminds him, they’ve never been more than a nuisance to one another. Hell, they share drinks and _chat_. 

Of course, Aziraphale also spends a great deal of his time warning the humans away from the figure that lurks in the shadows and works for the Devil. To his credit, that _is_ his job; Crawly doesn’t hold it against him. And only half the humans listen to the angel unless he’s actually using celestial power to compel them, which he rarely seems to do.

The terrain transitioning from dry sand to lush farmland pulls Crawly from his thoughts and back to the present. He veers to the west, where he has a little dwelling of his own on the outskirts of the village. 

Granted, it’s empty because he doesn’t know what the humans have inside _their_ dwellings. But the only time he spends there is the time it takes to turn from snake to man. Aziraphale has an identical home — Crawly copied his, since he had no other architectural references — on the opposite end of the village, to the east.

Sliding under the hide flap to his dwelling, Crawly wiggles until he’s more man than serpent, eyes and hips excluded. Unfortunately, the lasting damage to his celestial form has left him with practically no joints from the hips down. He can walk in his corporeal form, but he trips frequently, loses feeling in his legs, and aches constantly. 

He also found out not long after new humans moved into the area that his eyes are apparently abnormal compared to everyone else. _And_ that he has a suspiciously snake-shaped brand on the side of his face. 

Honestly, if the Princes of Hell wanted him to get more work done, they shouldn’t have mildly disfigured him. It’s difficult to convince humans that you aren’t the nefarious Serpent of Eden when you have yellow eyes and a snake tattooed _on your face._

Even with Adam and Eve around to recount the tale, though, some of the humans just can’t stay away from Crawly. He’s no clue whether it’s curiosity, naïvety, or a general proclivity towards evil, but the village children are especially interested in him. Cain, Adam and Eve’s firstborn, was among the first to seek him out willingly, and his friends and other interested kids began spying on the funny-eyed man on the west side. 

Despite the fact that they’re practically parasites the first few years of their lives, Crawly rather likes the children. They’re loud, energetic, and chaotic; much more entertaining than the adults who try to dampen them. Crawly takes a book of sigils Beelzebub threw at his head and has the kids draw them in the sand with sticks. He helps them make crude instruments to play and annoy their parents with. They’re honest to a fault, which Crawly admires, and when they request it he gives equally honest advice — to the best of his abilities.

Over the past decade though, as they’ve grown and learned, some of the older children have caught on to the fact that not-great things happen when Crawly is around. Some of them feel driven to misbehave, act out, and push away their loved ones. Others catch a sudden interest in playing with fire or snatching others’ belongings. The perceptive ones realize that these urges come on shortly after interacting with Crawly and do their best to avoid him. The others… well, fool them twice, shame on him indeed.

Most of it is fun and games; violence as a concept is still new to humans.

Stretching to adjust to his human-ish form, Crawly catches a glimpse of a bright yellow aura outside his dwelling and smiles.

“Good morning, Cain,” he greets as he steps outside. Reflexively, he starts walking toward the Euphrates for a morning stroll. He needs to stretch his lower limbs to keep them from going numb after a night of slithering about. “Ready for your big day?”

“You heard?” Cain responds excitedly, following him.

“‘Course, I always have my ear to the ground,” Crawly says, winking. He turns north when he hears the riverbank in the near distance. “The Almighty will be dropping in for a visit then, eh?”

“I am not entirely sure,” Cain says. “The angel was rather cryptic about what will be happening, but Abel and I are to present our respective work to someone.”

“Well, that’s vague and unhelpful.”

“I _know_ ,” Cain groans. “Mother says I have naught to worry about — ”

“But you know better than that,” Crawly says, smirking. 

“Why do they need to pass judgement on our work, anyhow?” Cain asks, growing heated.

A pain shoots down Crawly’s right leg and he winces, slowing to rub at his hip roughly. “Just what Heaven does,” he grunts. “But good on you for asking the right questions.”

He does know the _actual_ answer to Cain’s question; Beelzebub briefed him on the situation during their last meeting. Under the guise of judging Abel’s livestock and Cain’s food harvest, the Almighty will be evaluating humanity’s progress over the last fifteen years. 

It’s ridiculous, in Crawly’s opinion, seeing as the kids are twelve and fourteen years old respectively. Bit early to judge, innit? As long as the frail things survive childhood they’re supposed to live as long as seventy years, according to Aziraphale — they’re not even a quarter of the way there. 

After the judging, he’s under orders to influence whichever of the boys is less favourable in the eyes of the Almighty, but he already knows who he’ll be influencing. 

Of all the villagers, children and adults alike, Cain has always been the most interested in Crawly. Abel, who takes his mother’s word as gospel, keeps his distance. But Cain is less interested in listening to his parents, and he’s always been Crawly’s favourite. He’s smart, stubborn, and quick-witted as far as human kids go. He’s also lively and energetic in a way Crawly can’t comprehend, like he’s powered by the rush of the rivers that surround them. 

It’s easy to know that Cain won’t be the favourable one in the eye of the Lord. It’s almost like he was damned from the start.

Still, there’s no interfering with _the ineffable plan_ as it were, so all he can do is wait.

“Do you need help, Mister Crawly?” Cain asks, interrupting his thoughts.

“Ngk, no,” Crawly huffs, flexing his leg uncomfortably. He grimaces, but continues walking. “When will you be presenting your harvest?”

“Mister Aziraphale said he would be arriving mid-morning,” Cain says. “I woke up before the sun rose to prepare.”

“And decided to wait outside my dwelling for me to wake up instead?”

“I started already,” Cain laughs, kicking a rock into the river. “And I knew you would be awake; you are always up by sunrise.”

“Stalking _and_ keeping note of my whereabouts?” Crawly teases. “I should report straight back to your father.”

Cain laughs again and Crawly grins. “I shall let you go about your morning and get back to my work,” he says. “Wish me the best of luck!”

“Luck, kid,” Crawly says, nodding for him to get on. Cain takes off back in the direction of the village and Crawly shakes his head, still smiling. 

At least Cain got to start the day in a good mood; it’s a shame there’s no hope for the poor kid.

After another few minutes of walking Crawly stops to sit on a rock for a break and squints at the horizon. If Aziraphale isn’t due elsewhere until mid-morning, he’ll probably still be loitering around his dwelling now and there might be time to probe him for more info about what’s happening today. 

Crawly purses his lips. He could walk _or_ miracle himself over and save time, and since both acts are equally exhausting he opts for the miracle. 

With a snap he’s outside Aziraphale’s dwelling, transferred from his seat on the rock to the ground. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims, jumping out of his skin. He nearly trips into his own firepit. “Some warning, beast!”

Crawly snorts. “Good morning to you, too,” he says. “What snuck up your arse and made you start like _that_ at little ol’ me?”

“That’s exactly how one _should_ react to a demon popping in to say hello,” Aziraphale says, brushing the hem of his robes to rid them of ash. Then, haughtily, he adds, “Good morning. What are you doing here?”

“I’m sure you know already.”

Aziraphale regards him tensely. “I am sure I do _not_.”

“The judgement,” Crawly says, lounging back on the grass. “Will it just be you, or will some other stuffy bastard be coming down to play?”

“Why would I tell you?”

“Because you know I’ll find out anyway,” Crawly sighs, rolling his eyes to the sky. “Because we have this conversation anytime something new comes up in the works, because we’re the only two bloody celestial beings on this planet. Why do the judging so early in the kids’ lives?”

“It’s simply a benchmark examination,” Aziraphale says. “We may both be celestial but I assure you we’re _far_ from the same.”

“So you remind me every time we talk,” Crawly grumbles. “S’no fun being reminded of my eternal damnation on a constant basis, y’know.”

“As it shouldn’t be,” Aziraphale says.

“Gosh, someone’s got their feathers in a bunch. What’s your problem?”

“I am _trying_ to prepare for an important day and you are _interrupting_ me,” Aziraphale huffs. “Could you take your demonic business elsewhere?”

Crawly tilts his head, taking in the angel’s energy. He’s more rude and jittery than usual; maybe his ass is on the line with this judgement. That would make sense — Hell, they might even be doing this examination _early_ because a certain _someone_ wasn’t watching the humans closely enough in the Garden. 

He tsks and pushes himself off the ground, dusting off his robes. “Fine, if you’re going to be a tit either way,” he says. “Good luck, Aziraphale; don’t let the other big, bad angels scare you too badly.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “Do _not_ meddle in this, Crawly, or you’ll regret it,” he warns.

Crawly wants to take him seriously — truly, he does — but coming from the angel who _didn’t_ cut his head off when given the opportunity, it’s hard to believe. “Oh, I’m sure I will,” he mutters, rolling his eyes as he wanders in the direction of the village. “Twat.”

Aziraphale can be so bloody _uppity_. It’s like he chooses at random when he has a problem with socializing with a demon. Not like chatting it up with an angel is Crawly’s first choice either — he doesn’t _want_ to be pals with someone as stuffy and neurotic as Aziraphale. 

But, as it were, Crawly has yet to meet a demon he gets on with as easily as Aziraphale, and they both appear to be outcasts. As far as he can tell, anyway. He hasn’t asked what came of Aziraphale giving his flaming sword away, but he’s been ‘missing’ a lot of departmental memos. Seems to Crawly the angel ought to be on edge more often than just today.

“Whatever,” he grumbles, crossing his arms as he grumpily saunters through the village. “‘Scuse me for being _social_.” 

Now he’s put-out and he didn’t even get information out of it. _Tch_. Well, the sun is climbing in the sky and he needs to conserve energy for his temptation later on — time to find a nice patch of light to relax in. 

✧✦✧

A buzzing inside his head rouses Crawly from his heat-drunken stupor some hours later. He peels his eyes open, blinking slowly; an angel? No, wrong kind of buzzing. Bugs? 

_CRAWLY. ANSWER, SNAKE._

He grimaces; _flies_.

 _Lord Beelzebub_ , he replies telepathically, rubbing his dry eyes. _Has the judgement ended?_

_YES. THE ELDEST BOY, CAIN, WAZZZ SEEN LESS FAVOURABLY IN THE EYEZZZ OF THE LORD. YOU ARE TO INFLUENCE A REACTION FROM HIM._

_Got it. You know, I can hear you loud and clear — no need to uh, shout._

_WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?_

_Nothing._ Crawly rolls his eyes. _Got it — influence Cain, your Lordship._

_REPORT WITH UPDATEZZZ. DON’T FUCK UP._

“Haven’t yet,” Crawly mumbles aloud, stretching. Shame, that — he’d almost figured out the whole sleeping thing that humans are so consumed with. Yawning, he stands from the sun-baked patch of grass he’d been lying on and heads toward his dwelling. 

This should be easy enough; Cain will likely seek him out like he does whenever he has a bad experience at home. His parents seem to have a preference for Abel in general, likely because he never pushes back against what they have to say. 

That, and he actually tries to stay out of trouble. Cain, however, has a penchant for mischief, which plenty of villagers have complained to Adam about. 

Crawly knows those complaints have led to punishments in various forms because he’s influenced Adam to give them himself. He hasn’t once shown himself to Adam or Eve since the Garden, but from a distance he’s able to manipulate their mood enough that they barely notice but still follow through on some kind of Hellish task. 

When he reaches his dwelling he finds Cain, as expected, waiting for him. He’s sitting on the ground, rubbing a stick back and forth in the dirt aimlessly. 

“Hey,” Crawly says, “back already? That was quick.”

Cain grumbles, dejected energy coming off him in waves.

“What’s wrong?” Crawly asks, doing his best to play dumb.

“The Lord was displeased with my offering,” Cain mumbles, sniffling. “My brother’s flock was preferable to my harvest.”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Crawly says, tone heavy with fake empathy. _Ugh, put ‘get better at pretending to be human’ on your to-do list_. “Did She tell you why?”

“No,” Cain says, oblivious to Crawly’s bad acting. “She only told me that my anger was not justified, and that I should continue working to improve myself.”

Crawly sighs heavily. “Sounds about right,” he says. He hums in fake thought, taking a moment to nudge his energy against Cain’s temptingly. “Everyone always giving vague advice with no real direction. Frustrating, innit?”

“It is.”

“Tell you what — you should do something to prove you’re better than Abel.”

Cain looks up, brows furrowed. His aura retracts, uncertain. “I should?”

“Yeah, why not?” Crawly says. He probes again; not enough to alarm, but insistent enough that Cain won’t be able to ignore it. “Your work was disparaged, you deserve a second chance.”

There’s a shift in Cain’s energy, and Crawly can feel his determination, and… something else. Something devilish.

“You really think so?” Cain asks once more, this time like he’s asking for permission.

Crawly smiles, reaches out, and offers his hand to help the kid off the ground. “I do.” 

Cain takes his hand and hoists himself up. “You’re right,” he says, smiling and brushing a stray tear off his face. “Thank you, Mister Crawly.” 

“Sure thing, kid,” Crawly says. He ruffles Cain’s hair fondly. “Go on, get out of here.”

Cain runs off, energy renewed, and Crawly sighs with satisfaction. 

_Temptation accomplished_ , he thinks in Beelzebub’s direction.

_REPORT RECEIVED._

Easy enough job. Now the kid will steal some cattle or a goat and Beelzebub will be off his back. He plops down next to his dwelling and lays back, making himself comfortable. Baking in the desert heat until he eventually figures out how to sleep is what he intends to do for the rest of the week. 

He only gets about fifteen minutes of peace. 

Nearby, there’s a piercing scream, then silence. 

_Oh, beautiful work, Crawly,_ a deep voice unexpectedly purrs in his mind a moment later. _Perhaps sending you to Earth was the right move after all._

From the same direction as before, a different scream — a haunting one, more pained than those of the tortured in Hell. 

The blood drains from Crawly’s face. _Th-thank you, Lord Lucifer,_ he replies, scrambling to his feet. _It is my duty to your Hellish domain._

“ _Bad,_ ” he whispers nervously, running — as awkward and painful as it is — toward the source of the wails. He already knows where they’ll lead him. “Oh, this is gonna be _bad._ ”

As he stumbles onto Adam and Eve’s property, a buzzing grows over the frantic pounding of his heart. _Hell_ , this is _really_ gonna be bad.

The humans are out in their pasture, where Abel tends to their flock. It’s easy to tell now that Eve is the one wailing, and he’s only heard humans make this type of sound a few times; each time in the face of death, usually of a child. The rest of the picture snaps into place even without Crawly being able to see it. 

He trips to his hands and knees a few metres away from the humans, wincing at the sharp pains that shock up to his hips on impact. Catching his breath, he kneels there and takes as much of the scene in as he can.

Eve is kneeling in the dirt, clinging to a body Crawly is certain is Abel’s. The body’s aura has already departed, but Cain is standing in front of her and Adam behind, so there’s no one else it could be.

“It was not on purpose!” Cain cries. He reaches out to comfort her — or perhaps receive comfort himself. “I promise, _eema_ , I swear!”

“Get back!” Eve sobs, clutching Abel’s limp body to her chest. 

“Eema, _please_ —”

“She said _get back!”_ Adam bellows, stepping out in front of Eve to shield her. A protective urge for Cain flares up in Crawly’s stomach, but he bites it back and continues watching in shock.

From the opposite side of the pasture Aziraphale finally arrives, bustling in with an air of panic. “What the devil happened here?!” he gasps, rushing to Eve’s side.

“Do not touch him!” she wails, throwing herself over Abel’s body. “No one touch him!”

“It was - an accident!” Cain sobs, gasping for breath. “An accident! I didn’t want to - to kill - he’s my _brother —”_

“Oh, _you_ ,” Aziraphale growls pointedly. Crawly is so enraptured by the event that he doesn’t realize Aziraphale is talking to him until the angel is stomping up to his face. “Crawly! did you have something to do with this?”

Crawly stiffens and shoves himself to his feet to loom over Aziraphale menacingly. _He’ll_ be the towering one, thank you very much. “I just suggested that Cain do something to prove himself!” he snaps. “I thought he would — I dunno, steal a goat or call the kid a bad name, not end his life!”

“You bloody _fool_ , look what you’ve done!” Aziraphale exclaims, gesturing back at the hysteric humans. Crawly stares at their animated auras, unable to tear himself away.

“Leave, _now_ ,” Adam commands, stepping up to Cain.

“Leave — w- _where_?” Cain asks, voice shaking dangerously. 

“I do not care,” Adam says. “Just _go_.”

Cain gawps, then puffs himself up defensively. “Where a-am I supposed to _go_?!” he shouts desperately. “I can’t - can’t just _leave_ —”

“ _Go!_ ” Adam yells furiously, shoving his son back with enough force to knock him to the ground. “You are not welcome here anymore!”

Sirens go off in Crawly’s mind and he lunges forward, only to be smacked in the chest by the surprisingly immovable strength of Aziraphale’s arm. The angel grabs his tunic by the collar and holds him still. Crawly, speechless, stares wide-eyed at Aziraphale. _Shit_ , he thinks, _he is… **far** sturdier than he acts._

Shaking his head, Crawly glances back at the humans just in time to see Cain’s aura sprinting out of the pasture.

"You're gonna let him go off like that?" he asks, voice strangled as he wriggles in Aziraphale’s grasp. "On his own?"

"What the Hell else am I to do?" Aziraphale snaps back. He lets go of Crawly roughly and glowers. "He _killed_ his _brother_ because of your advice, and now he has to face the consequences of his actions. That's a lesson I thought you would be _well_ acquainted with, but I've overlooked a lot about you."

Crawly recoils at Aziraphale’s tone and the growing heat of his energy; his aura is gradually increasing in size, like water about to boil over. Anger does _not_ suit him.

" _That'sss_ rich, _angel_ ," Crawly hisses. "Like you'd know a damn thing about _consssequencesss_."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It meansss _fuck_ _you_ ," Crawly spits, moving to shove past him. “Get out of my way.”

“ _Enough!”_ Aziraphale shouts. 

A pair of painfully bright, ethereal white wings spring into existence and beat powerfully, kicking up the dust around them. Dirt and debris starting circling Crawly like a personal sandstorm. He watches, awed, as eyes — _are they eyes? They must be eyes, they glow just like the ones on his face —_ open amongst Aziraphale’s feathers; first two, then ten, then dozens more. 

“Get back,” Aziraphale demands calmly, eyes upon eyes pinning Crawly in place with almost hypnotic energy. “Hell has done _enough_ to this family.”

Crawly swallows tightly, entranced. It’s a damn good thing he can’t see more than blinding light, because if he could fully absorb the impact of an infinite number of Heavenly eyes staring him down in high definition, he would either shit himself or implode on the spot.

The sandstorm gains mass and pushes him a few metres away before knocking him onto his back. It takes the wind out of him and he lies there, wheezing and blinking away the burning white spots in his already limited field of vision.

 _Guess there **is**_ _a reason they sent him to Earth in the first place_ , he thinks, genuinely stunned. It feels like he’ll never be able to reorganize himself — like his body and mind have been separated and all his thoughts scattered. 

The trancelike sensation wears off just seconds later, though, and his head fills with flies at the first opportunity they have to occupy his mental space.

 _REPORT IN PERSON AZZZ SOON AZZZ POSSIBLE_ , Beelzebub orders.

Swallowing tightly, Crawly rolls onto his stomach and groans his way back to his feet. _Yes, Lord Beelzebub_ , he responds wearily. _Be down in a jiffy._

He turns to the west, where Aziraphale’s wings have re-entered the appropriate dimension and the angel is now crouching near Eve. Shaking his head, he turns to the east where Cain is quickly disappearing, and switches to his serpentine form to chase the boy. He pushes himself to catch up with Cain, and then slows to follow from a distance. 

The boy is crying as he marches from the only home he's ever known toward… well, the complete unknown. But he's powering forward, refusing to stop, despite not knowing where he's going or what he'll do upon arriving there.

Crawly's heart squeezes painfully. He supposes only a demon could feel sorry for a killer. Beelzebub can wait a bit longer — he has more work to do.

✧✦✧

They travel quickly at first, but the farther from Eden they go, the slower Cain becomes. He didn’t take any food or water and there’s no telling how far he’ll have to travel through the desert before he comes across any. But — well.

There’s no turning back after something like that, is there?

Crawly could help him, of course, but he isn’t sure of whose eyes are on him right now. Surely, helping humans as a _concept_ is against the rules, but what about individuals? Especially one who’s just committed an unspeakable crime?

When the sun finally dips past the horizon, shrouding the desert in darkness and significantly slowing Cain’s momentum, Crawly caves. He speeds ahead a few metres so he can stop the boy in his tracks. In the blink of an eye he’s human-shaped again, but in the dark it takes a few extra shuffling steps before Cain notices him.

“You!” Cain gasps upon realizing who’s in front of him. “Stay away from me!”

“Easy, kid,” Crawly says, “I know you’re having a rough day —”

“Fuck you,” Cain spits, “why did you follow me?”

“To make sure you don’t get _eaten_. Now, calm down, alright? Let me —”

“Calm _down_?” Cain says, incredulous. “You have _no_ right to tell me to be calm! You made me kill my _own brother!_ ”

Crawly snarls, overcome with rage, and rushes forward to grab Cain by the front of his tunic, nearly missing because of his shit depth perception. “Cool it with the _accusationsss_ ,” he hisses, shaking all over. “I didn’t tell you to take a bloody rock to his head, did I?”

Rather than fighting, Cain breaks down crying. “I — I never meant to — I —”

Crawly sighs, anger dissipating again. Cain may be a killer, but he’s also still a kid; he’s a bit pathetic right now. “Sit down,” he says, letting go of the boy.

Cain sinks to his knees, weeping. Crawly conjures up a fire and a skin full of water, then joins him on the ground. 

“What happened?” he asks brusquely.

“I — I went to Abel to try and convince him to give me s-some of his flock so that I could be m-more favourable,” Cain cries. “When he told me no, I got angry and — and tackled him like when we fight for fun, but I was _so_ angry, and I — oh _God_ — I saw the rock —”

He sobs more heavily, face in his hands. “I wanted — I wanted him to hurt as much as I was, but not — oh, God, I’m sorry — _I’m so sorry, Abel, I’m sorry, I’m so_ _sorry_.”

Crawly swallows hard, tears in his eyes as he imagines the dismal scene. _The power of suggestion._ Hesitantly, he reaches out and puts a hand on Cain’s trembling shoulders. The boy leans into the touch so heavily that he ends up in Crawly’s lap, desperate for comfort. Crawly stiffens, unsure of what to do. He awkwardly pats Cain’s back while he cries.

“I’ll never s-see him again,” Cain wails, “nor my — my _eema_ or _abba —_ what do I do? What do I _do?_ ”

Crawly opens his mouth to make a snide remark, but nothing comes out. 

“I don’t know,” he admits a moment later, hand resting on Cain’s back. “Sorry.”

Cain clings to him, sobbing with a force that shakes his entire body, and Crawly stays there, loosely holding him and patting his back every now and again. The kid cries until he can't breathe, gasping unevenly, and Crawly is worried briefly that he might suffocate and die. But he comes down, slowly, until his breathing turns to long inhales and shaky exhales. Eventually, it evens out entirely and Crawly realizes Cain has fallen asleep on him.

He carefully slides over, using his hand to lower Cain's head to the sand. If he doesn't get Downstairs soon his tardiness will be center-stage instead of his work ethic. That, and Beelzebub might fill his throat with flies, which he hates.

Hoping Cain is exhausted enough to sleep through his absence, he wiggles his way into a snake shape and burrows down into the sand.

"Finally!" Beelzebub says disdainfully, by way of greeting. "Where have you been?"

" _Tying up loosssse endsss,"_ Crawly replies. He slithers through the gate and de-snakes himself, stretching his back and grimacing. "The boy took off and I had to follow him."

"Why?"

"Er — I, uh, can't lose track of him, Lord Beelzebub," he says, rattling around for an excuse. "In case, uh, the Angel of the Eastern Gate comes 'round looking for… justice."

"... Right," Beelzebub says cautiously. "Let’s go, snake, the Dishonorable Court is awaiting your arrival."

They take off down the cavernous corridor and Crawly follows. "The, er, whole Court?"

"The _whole_ Court."

Crawly's throat tightens and he nods. That's… fine. Lucifer sounded pleased earlier, it should be fine. He has no idea whether or not helping this kid will get him punished in ways more painful than he can begin to imagine. It's all _fine._

He tries not to let his confidence get further bogged down by the general dank darkness around him. He did good work today — by Hell's standards, anyway. First human to kill another human? _Quite_ the accomplishment, and it only took fourteen years. 

He thinks of Cain, sleeping in the sand, alone on a planet he can't begin to fathom the size of. And Abel, gone — his energy off to !whichever side influenced him most in his short life. Two lives destroyed by… him.

Woof.

Crawly swallows thickly and wipes any trace of remorse from his face as they turn down a hall he recognizes as leading to Lucifer's chambers. Makes sense — it's probably the only cave that fits him and everyone else. Crawly’s theory is that he uses the human souls that come downstairs to grow in size and power. Hastur's is that he's been working out a lot lately. Could be either.

"Lord Beelzebub and an underling approaching!" Beelzebub announces. "Permission to enter?"

"Granted," Lucifer answers. "Crawly! _Beautiful_ work."

The Court jeers and laughs raucously; most of them are only there to taunt him and keep the mood lively. The Princes will be the only ones deciding how little he'll be tortured for this achievement. 

Crawly grins, faking suave confidence. " _Thank_ you, Your Disgrace."

"Tell us how it happened," Lucifer insists. He sounds almost _playful;_ it makes the hair on the back of Crawly’s neck stand on edge. "Go on, darling."

"You don't already know what happened?" Crawly asks.

"Of course we know _what_ happened," Lucifer says, like Crawly is the densest demon he's met. The Court sniggers. "We want to know _how_ it happened. Paint us a picture!"

"Make it good," Beelzebub grumbles under their breath. "We're both under evaluation here, snake."

 _No pressure,_ Crawly thinks, plastering on a smug look. "Oh, it was _beautifully_ awful," he says, trying to feel as giddy as the others over this event. "It went better than I could've hoped. Cain took my influence with next to no resistance, went off without a hitch."

"The murder," Lord Leviathan chimes in, "was it bloody?"

 _Murder._ It sounds so… sinister. Much more sinister than what actually happened. But once you say it, it's in the air — there's no denying what the actual act was. Cain murdered Abel.

Crawly's throat tightens, but he presses on. "No — not bloody, but — well, the boy, he attempted to, er, steal his brother's livestock," he recounts, "and when his brother resisted, he took a rock and — and bashed him right over the head. Beat him to death."

The Court cheers, a few members stomping their feet and whistling. Crawly grins painfully.

" _Gorgeous,_ " Lucifer purrs. "Where is the boy now?"

"I followed him," Crawly replies, straightening up and forcing himself to look confident. He needs to be ready to justify his actions. "He took off east and I decided to pursue and see what humans I can influence when he arrives in another village."

" _Good_ ," Lucifer says. "Job well done, Crawly. I didn't know you had it in you. And excellently directed, Lord Beelzebub."

"Thank you, Lord Lucifer," Beelzebub responds. "Where do we go from here?"

"If there are other populations, the snake should be infiltrating them to secure souls for our master," Leviathan says. 

"For once, brilliant idea, Leviathan," Lucifer says. "Beelzebub, have him keep doing what he's doing in other locations while we solidify our plans."

"Heard," Beelzebub responds. "Can we be of further assistance, Lord Lucifer?"

"Just enjoy the _festivities_ , Beelzebub," Lucifer says. "Duke Azazel brought a sacrificial goat."

"I take it this means we’re dismissed,” Beelzebub says dryly.

Lucifer sighs high-and-mightily. “See me before you leave. Crawly, have fun.”

Beelzebub grumbles and abandons Crawly to march up to Lucifer. 

That’s… it? Not a word about the opposition’s involvement, nor his oddly compassionate step out of line?

Crawly decides to thank his lucky stars rather than questioning anything. Maybe things aren’t all that black and white. He smiles awkwardly in case anyone is looking at him and turns to quietly leave. 

He’s interrupted by Hastur’s slimy aura. “ _Oy_ — eugh, watch it Hastur,” he huffs, his face wrinkling.

“Crawly,” Hastur grunts. “Leaving already?”

Crawly bristles. This oughta be good — Hastur is such a kissass to the Princes of Hell, he spends every possible moment of Crawly’s time in Hell harassing him on their behalf. 

“Yeah, well, I’ve got plenty to do back on Earth,” he says, crossing his arms. 

“What could you possibly have to do during a celebration of your success?”

“I’m following Cain, I can’t lose the kid now.”

“So the child is your priority?” Hastur asks accusationally.

“Lord Lucifer just said to keep doing what I’m doing in other places,” Crawly retorts. “Cain was just exiled from his village — he’s bound to lead me to a place with other humans. They seem to flock to one another.”

Hastur falters at that. He doesn’t know enough about Earth to dispute anything Crawly says about it, even if he were lying. “Where will he go?”

“Not sure,” Crawly admits. “Honestly, I feel bad for the kid.”

"Feel… bad?" Hastur parrots stupidly.

"Yeah, well — species' first murderer is only fourteen years old and just spent the past hour bawling his eyes out," Crawly says, shrugging. "Hits close to home, I guess."

Hastur’s aura tightens around him. "What are you talking about?"

Crawly's stomach turns. "You don't feel the least bit… I dunno, repentant?"

"No," he says, "I don't. Why would I? This is a great achievement."

"Ngk — er, right," Crawly stammers, his heart pounding in his ears, "first murder's a big one."

"Yes," Hastur says, slowly and distrustfully. "You are the one we have to thank for it."

Bile rises in Crawly's throat and he swallows hard, nodding. "What can I say?" he jokes drily. "I'm an overachiever."

“And you feel… guilty?”

“Er — no, no, must, ah —” Crawly stammers, trying not to panic, “must’ve eaten some bad lion’s meat.”

“What’s eating?”

“Nothing — nothing, I should, er, get back to work,” Crawly says, stepping around Hastur. 

He hurries in the direction of the gates, ignoring Hastur's muttered insults as he goes.

No remorse. Not even a little niggling concern in the back of Hastur’s rotting head. And he wasn't lying — Crawly has heard Hastur lie to other demons, he's well and truly awful at it.

If demons feel no remorse, why does he? Crawly is meant to feel the same way as Hastur and Lord Beelzebub, isn't he? All the other demons are happy to revel in their sinister actions and celebrate wins for the Princes of Hell. Crawly, meanwhile, is empathizing with a fourteen year old murderer who made a massive mistake.

What the _fuck_ is wrong with him?

He rushes to Earth, back to his safe space, and emerges into the barren desert a stone’s throw from where he left Cain. The fire he left going is low, flickering meekly in the vast darkness. The boy is still curled up in the sand. 

Crawly turns and bolts away from the kid, awkwardly running in the sand. The exertion brings pained tears to his eyes and he only makes it a few metres away before crumpling to the ground. He crawls a bit further, tears streaming down his face, until he feels far enough from Cain to let out a sob. 

“What’s wrong with me?” he chokes out, composure completely lost. He’s been clinging to this idea that he’ll just _get over_ his internal aversion to causing harm to the humans. He’d ventured to even pin his hopes on other demons feeling similarly to him. Hastur seeming to have no understanding of what remorse even is has shattered his already fragile faith and now his fear and hurt are seeping through the cracks. “What’s wrong with me? What am I? _What am I?_ ”

He turns his face to the sky, and for the first time since he woke up in Hell, he prays.

"Please," he cries, hugging his knees to his chest, "please, just — just help me _understand_. What am I? Why am I on the receiving end of this torture? Please, Lord, tell me — just a reason, _one_ thing I did."

He forces his breathing to even out so he can hear over himself, but there’s no response.

He squeezes his eyes shut and smacks his fists against his legs in frustration. "Tell me why I've been cast out all on my own!"

And perhaps if he begs enough, if he can just communicate his absolute _desperation_ , he'll get an answer. "Tell me," he sobs, pressing his forehead to his knees. "Tell me, Lord — _please_ , tell me what I've _done_."

He cries, and begs, until he's shaking from the exertion; until he's drained of his remorse, and his pain — everything. Until he physically can’t cry anymore and his breath is a mix of trembling gasps and shaky exhales. She never replies. 

When he's numb and tingly, he gets on his hands and knees and crawls all the way back to where Cain is sleeping and collapses on the other side of the embers left from the fire.

While he's lying there shivering, he finally faces the fact that he is well and truly alone, abandoned by the one who brought him to be and unlike anyone else of his kind. What does it mean that he was expelled from God’s grace without memory of so much as an explanation? Is it that his infraction was so minor that the Lord couldn’t be bothered to have a Heavenly vessel detail his crimes? Or were his actions so unspeakable that they had to be purged from his mind entirely, lest he remember the temptation that led him there? 

Neither scenario is appealing. He reaches over and reignites the fire with his fingertips so it’ll last until sunrise. Nestling his head into the sand, Crawly sighs and shuts his swollen eyes to the flickering light. 

And he finally, blessedly sleeps.

✧✦✧

Things are peaceful until, in the darkness of his own subconscious, Crawly is mentally roused by a wave of lucidity and a feeling of warmth washing over him.

 _Rest, my child, you are safe_ , a light and sweet voice speaks into his mind. _And when you wake, guide him; due East is the town of Nod. Bring him to a new home. Show him how to live mercifully and with intention. Show him hope beyond his mistakes._

 _Thank you_ , Crawly thinks rotely. _Is this real?_

_As real as you believe it to be._

The wave crashes and the voice slips away like detritus dragged into the water as the current pulls him back into the cool dark of sleep.

✧✦✧

Communication through dreams, as a practice, is tricky. By nature, dreams are meant as a subconscious method of processing information, the content of which never becomes a true memory except in impactful circumstances. As such, giving instructions — for example — can become a surreal game of telephone in which only parts of the message get through.

Sometimes, giving the message to the recipient directly is more effective.However, the more this happens, the less the recipient trusts the reality of the message. What a delicate thing a psyche is.

✧✦✧

Crawly wakes, disoriented, with the rising sun. His head feels heavier than it did when he found out that too much alcohol is a mistake, but it doesn’t hurt like it did then. It does, however, feel like it’s stuffed with cotton. And he didn’t get nearly enough sleep.

At least he actually _slept_. He thought he’d never get it right. Not that it was very restful — if that’s what humans are doing every night, what a waste. It left him with drool crusted to his face, a mouthful of loose sand, and a sore back.

And he vaguely remembers… something. One of those night hallucinations the humans claim to have when they sleep. All he can recall is a comforting feeling and a distant voice. Bloody weird. 

Crawly sits up, stretching his neck from side to side until it cracks. He squints at Cain, still curled into himself, fast asleep, and sighs. A blind demon and a large child don’t stand much of a chance against the earthly horrors of the desert. It’s a miracle they weren’t eaten after Crawly passed out. They need to get to another group of humans.

He stands, wincing and biting back a groan. Geez, how do humans lie in one spot for so long every night? His corporeal form is heavily protesting. Running around like a headless chicken in the dead of night probably didn’t help either — he isn’t going to be able to do any walking today, he’ll have to stick to slithering. It’ll be easier to sneak into a village as a snake than a snake-looking human anyway. 

Shuffling around the fire, once again reduced to embers, Crawly gently nudges Cain in the ribs. The boy stirs, but Crawly has to poke him a few more times to wake him. He whines in protest, rolling over.

“Hey, get up, kid,” Crawly huffs, annoyed. “We need to get moving.”

“Why?” Cain grumbles. 

“Because something’s bound to come along and eat us if we don’t.”

“Good. It is what I deserve.”

Crawly sighs, rubbing his face roughly. “Whether or not that’s true, it’s not what we’re doing. I don’t have time for your human emotions.”

Huffing and puffing, Cain sits up and crosses his arms. “You are _not_ in charge of me.”

“But I do hold the power to magic up some food for you,” Crawly says, “so are you going to keep being dramatic or do you want to eat?”

There’s a pause. “Can you really do that?” Cain asks warily. “Conjure food?”

“Yeah.” Crawly reaches behind his back and comes up with some apricots and seed bread. He offers them to Cain, who takes them and cautiously bites into the bread.

“It tastes... different,” Cain says.

“It does?”

“Mhm. Not bad, just different.”

“Weird,” Crawly says. “Well. Eat up — or don’t, I guess. We need to start moving.” Cain stares up at him and Crawly tilts his head. “What?”

“Are you really a demon?” Cain asks softly.

Crawly purses his lips. “That what your parents tell you?”

Cain nods. He seems too tired to be frightened by whatever answer he gets.

“Yeah, I’m a demon,” Crawly says gruffly. 

“Why are you helping me?” 

Crawly takes a deep breath. He doesn’t have time to unload his celestial trauma on an anguished teenager. “Seems only fair, doesn’t it?” he answers, technically truthfully.

“Because you hurt me before?”

“... Yes,” Crawly admits, “and no. I want to help you because I’ve always liked you. You're a good kid. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Why did you?” Cain asks, audibly choked up.

A stab of guilt lances Crawly’s core. _Ngk_. Poor fucking kid. “I don’t have a choice,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “I’m sorry, really. But the sooner we find other people, the sooner I can shift my focus off you. Okay?”

Sniffling, Cain nods and wipes his eyes. “Okay,” he echoes.

“Good. Now drink some water so you don’t shrivel up when the sun rises.”

Cain obeys and drinks from the skin that Crawly conjured up last night. He wipes stray water off his face when he’s sated and looks back up at Crawly. “Why are you still standing?”

“Can’t sit back down,” Crawly says, rubbing his knuckles into his lower back. “You know I'm the Serpent of Eden, yeah? I’ll need to turn into that to travel.”

“Why?”

“Body hurts. Old wounds. Eat your wrinkled fruit.”

Cain pops an apricot in his mouth. “Where are we supposed to go?”

“Nod,” Crawly says, the name rolling off his tongue before he can worry about where he learned it. He must have heard one of the villagers back home mention the town offhandedly. “Due east; same direction we started off in.”

“What do I do?” Cain asks meekly. “How do I… go _on_ , after what I have done?”

“I don’t know,” Crawly says truthfully. “We’ll have to find out together.”

He catches a hint of a smile on Cain’s face and mirrors it. Finally satiated as far as answers go, Cain finishes his ‘different’ food and gets to his feet.

“Ready,” he announces halfheartedly, slinging the skin of water over his shoulder. 

“Took long enough,” Crawly teases, ruffling Cain’s hair. “Alright, follow me.” He takes a few steps aside and wiggles himself into a snake shape. Cain gasps softly at the sight.

“ _Not a word about thisss to anyone new,”_ Crawly hisses. _“No one where we're going knowsss what I am. No one knowsss what you are. Thisss all staysss between usss. Understood?”_

Cain nods, awestruck. There’s no way to guarantee that rumors of the Serpent of Eden haven’t moved beyond the town east of Eden, but not living in the same village as the humans subject to the original sin could do wonders for his work. Crawly turns toward the rising sun and gestures with his head for Cain to follow before setting off at a steady pace.

It takes almost until nightfall before they reach Nod, mainly because traversing the desert is dreadful and requires a lot of breaks to gripe, moan, and drink water. The sun, kissing the horizon behind them, highlights a group of dwellings in the near distance. Cain’s pace, which continued to slow as the day crept along, resurges and he catches up to Crawly’s naturally more swift stride. 

They approach the west end of the village and Cain hesitates, unsure of where to go from here.

Crawly turns to him and smiles — as benignly as a snake can — and hisses, “ _Watch thisss.”_

He swivels his head toward the last group of dwellings between Nod and the desert beyond. With a blink two more appear, identical to the rest. “ _One for you, one for me. Not too ssshabby, eh?_ ”

“Won’t someone notice?” Cain asks.

Crawly would shrug if he had shoulders. “ _I have my waysss. Which one do you want?”_

Cain shifts uncomfortably. “We have to live separately?”

“ _Yesss. You’re meant to, I dunno, meet another human to cohabit and parent with, aren’t you?”_

“I guess. I just do not want to be alone, Mister Crawly.”

“ _I’ll be right next to you. Which one?”_

“The left, I suppose.”

 _“Go on, then._ ”

They shuffle to their respective dwellings, ready to drop. Crawly shifts from snake to man the second he passes the threshold, groaning and flopping into the sand gratefully.

“Um, Mister Crawly?” Cain chimes from the entrance a few moments later.

Crawly grunts in acknowledgement. 

“There’s, er, nothing in there.”

He lifts his head, raising a brow. “What’s s’posed to be in there?”

“A bed?” Cain suggests. “And oil lamps. And an oven, I suppose?”

“You people sure need a lot of help with survival,” Crawly mutters, waving a hand lazily to conjure up the rest of what Cain needs and dropping his head back in the sand. 

“Do you not need to eat and sleep?” Cain asks.

“Not really. But you do. Go do that.” It’s quiet for a moment, but Crawly can feel Cain still staring at him. “What?”

Very softly, Cain asks, “may I stay with you tonight?”

Too exhausted to put up a fight, Crawly sighs softly. “Sure, kid.”

He snaps his fingers and the sand beneath him hardens into a floor, and his dwelling fills with the same furnishings as Cain’s: a bed of wool, oil lamps, a little domed clay oven, a rickety table, a similarly precarious chair, and a set of dishes. 

“Thank you,” Cain exhales, scurrying in and shutting the thin door behind him. He sets his water skin and remaining food on the floor and goes right to the bed, sitting down gratefully.

Crawly sits up stiffly, then groans his way to his feet. His legs are ridiculously tight from being a snake all day and he won’t be able to relax until he’s stretched them out. Luckily, Cain is asleep the moment his head hits the bed and Crawly is able to slip out unnoticed.

He stands outside the door, taking a moment to bask in the cool evening air now that the sun has gone down. He may not need sleep, but he _is_ bloody tired. What a tumultuous few days. 

Wandering around the perimeter at a tired pace, Crawly does his best to avoid appearing like a dark spirit encroaching upon the village of Nod. He is, of course, but he doesn’t want to look like that. A fresh start could be prolific — none of these humans know that he’s a demon and he might have a better chance of blending in, aside from the otherworldly features that distinguish him. 

He hears light conversations through the windows of the homes he passes by, and raucous laughter further down the way. It’s odd to consider the fact that for now, he and Cain are much the same — isolated and _other_ — and he wonders if Cain will be able to move on and connect with other humans, or if he’s destined to be just like Crawly.

What a lonely experience for a human. At least demons and angels aren’t pack-oriented; Cain has never been the antisocial type from what Crawly can tell. Hopefully some human sucker takes pity on him like Crawly has. 

As he turns around and walks back toward where he came, a buzzing rises in his core and he puts a hand on his chest. The sensation got so distant after he followed Cain that he forgot about it. 

He whips his head around, searching for nearby auras. Is there another angel in Nod? Has the opposition sent someone else down? He sees a pulsing light outside the dwelling where Cain is sleeping and his heartbeat picks up, his pace taking on urgency.

But as he approaches the dwelling he realizes that it’s just Aziraphale, presumably searching for Cain. 

He’s about to open the door when Crawly wanders up behind him. “Looking for someone?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasps, spinning around on his heel. “Goodness — caught me off guard! Er — Crawly. Hello.”

Crawly snorts. “Smooth. Come to check up on the _murderer?”_

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale says wearily, “he’s a child who made a mistake. A grave one, of course, but… I wanted to see to it that he lived another day to learn from this.”

Crawly crosses his arms, lips pursed. “Already took care of that, thanks.”

“I’m sure I had something to do with it,” Aziraphale huffs.

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Crawly asks, squinting.

“It’s not exactly _easy_ for a human to survive in a desert,” Aziraphale says. “As heinous as his actions were, he doesn’t necessarily deserve to… well, to meet his end like _that_. So I… sent him off with a little blessing.”

Crawly does his best to hide his surprise. A blessing. _Tsk._ That explains why nothing touched them throughout the journey. It’s shocking that Aziraphale bothered to do it, though — what happened to _facing the consequences of his actions?_

“How’d you find him?” Crawly asks. “Did you follow us?”

“I didn’t need to,” Aziraphale says. “When I put a blessing on someone I can feel where they are for a while. There’s a connection. I just let it pull me here.”

Crawly lets out a put-upon sigh and gestures to the door. “Go on and look, then.”

Aziraphale regards him cautiously for a moment, then opens the door and peers inside. He shuts the door again and exhales, concerns assuaged. “Good,” he murmurs, nodding. “At least he made it here in one piece.”

“Seems like a lot of effort just to check up on a discarded kid.”

“I could say the same to you, following him out here,” Aziraphale responds haughtily. Then, looking away, he lets his stubborn facade fall. “I know it’s not right, but I can’t help feeling sympathy for the boy.”

Crawly purses his lips. _You and me both,_ he thinks bitterly. “Feeling bad for him can’t be all that wrong,” he says instead.

“Hearing that from you isn’t very reassuring,” Aziraphale mutters.

“Wasn’t s’posed to be,” Crawly says. “It’s not my job to make angels feel warm and fuzzy about their choices. My job is to do what I’m told and avoid being boiled alive in holy water.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, sounding hesitant, “about my aggressive behavior — ”

“Forget it,” Crawly interrupts calmly. Clearly, Aziraphale is feeling as out-of-place as he is over this event. He doesn’t want to think about it any longer. “Water under the bridge.”

“Really?”

“Look,” Crawly says, “we’re both doing work we have no other choice but to do. We’re both going to be on Earth for the foreseeable future. Let’s just steer clear of each other; I do my thing, you do yours.”

Aziraphale relaxes. “Right, good — well. Now I know the boy is alive, I should be getting back.”

“Right-o,” Crawly says, leaning against his dwelling and waving lazily. “See you ‘round, angel.”

“Good-bye, Crawly.” 

In a blink he’s gone, but Crawly stands out there a while longer, letting himself process the events of the past few days.

He needs a drink. He walks back inside, a bottle of wine now in hand, and drops into his new, rather uncomfortable chair. 

“That’s that, then,” Crawly mutters, bringing the bottle to his lips. He swallows and grimaces. “Eugh. I guess it _does_ taste different.”


	4. the s e d u c e r (iii.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you know?” Aziraphale tries helplessly. “You’re —”  
> “A demon, yeah,” Crawly interrupts, already fed up with _that_ branch of conversation. “Can we not do this? Every bloody time I try to have a talk with you, we get here; can we skip it? Can you jus’ give yourself permission to listen to me for once?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **EMETO CW** : if you're emetophobic skip from "Crawly wakes with a frantic gasp and a phantom burning in his eyes" to "Horrifying is the only word bouncing around his head right now"
> 
>  **Descriptions of past torture take place in this chapter** (nothing that hasn't already been mentioned, now in terrifying nightmare format!)
> 
> thank you to the wonderful alex ([des-pa-neato](https://des-pa-neato.tumblr.com/post/639742661923848192/alberts-infinite-abyss-bearplayingtheviolin) on tumblr) for lending me your editing skills for this chapter!

**3004 B.C.**

In the back of his mind, Crawly has wondered since the beginning how he’s meant to live as _this_ — a twisted, semi-demonic monstrosity roaming the Earth and dispersing misfortune — forever. It’s a dreadful life on paper.

But honestly, a thousand years passes far faster than one would expect. And it’s not nearly as dreadful as Crawly thought it would be.

After they settled in Nod, it took Cain a few months to get comfortable spending time away from Crawly. He started sleeping in his own dwelling a week or so after their arrival, but he still spent every waking moment with Crawly for a while.

The attention was nice, sure, but a demon is no substitute for a parent. He couldn’t help the kid with anything practical and human, and eventually Cain ventured out to socialize with his own kind instead of following Crawly around like a lost lion cub.

It left Crawly free to come and go as he pleased again, which was a relief. But — even if he’s reluctant to admit it — having company around consistently and then losing it was lonelier than expected. Being needed was an experience he hadn't thought he'd miss either.

And when Cain met a partner to spawn with, he sat down with Crawly and asked respectfully that he never come near their children.

Couldn’t blame him for that, but... it stung. More than Crawly had the capacity to acknowledge. So he’d left Nod the following day without a trace, the dwelling he’d occupied for three years disappearing along with him.

On the bright side, being pushed away by Cain meant that in the next town he visited, _truly_ no one would know what or who he was. And that was a _fun_ concept.

Yes, a thousand years is quite short in the long scheme of things, especially once one figures out how to fill their time enjoyably. And Crawly quickly becomes an expert in meaningless entertainment and time-wasting after all of that mess.

He gets to know the growing villages and becomes nomadic, moving in and between them with ease. No more permanent dwellings. Constantly bouncing around helps him avoid suspicion.

Living amongst your prey just doesn’t work — no matter the disguise, they all eventually sniff out the predator and spread warnings to the others.

Plus, more villages means more people; no more messing with the same folks over and over because they’re all there is. Not having to face what his presence in their lives does on a daily basis makes work _far_ more tolerable for him.

He’s had the most success with the reckless temptations of everyday human life: sex, food, alcohol, gambling, and other such impulses. Beelzebub is never impressed, but the insults get milder with each success. Luckily for him, humans can be convinced to do practically anything in the heat of the moment, with or without occult influences.

But they have minds of their own and, more often than not, they turn a bit of delinquency into a majorly _bad_ event. Crawly suggests a little midnight drinking, they end up sloshed and breaking into someone's house. He implies that cheating once in a game isn't all that bad, they start scamming everyone in town and getting stabbed over it.

Humans escalate everything — honestly, at times they're scarier than demons. Scary enough that Crawly is occasionally given credit for their actions. What is he supposed to do, tell Beelzebub he _wasn't_ responsible for the Great Death Pit? Stabbing? _Local government?_

Absolutely not. His real demonic achievements thus far include accidentally compelling a child to kill his brother and tricking humans into getting hangovers. He needs the fucked-up credit, and if the humans are just going to hand it to him, well. It doesn't seem like anyone Downstairs minds, or even notices.

It's disconcerting, though. He suggests some pretty low-grade evil stuff, and they end up committing acts more violent than he could have imagined himself. _Is_ it his fault, his influence? He barely pushes them — it doesn't take a lot of effort — but they still do these horrific things to one another. Can he not conceptualize what he does to people? Or are humans just _like_ that?

Nevertheless, if he doesn’t care much about anyone else he’ll be fine, he’s sure of it. Lucky for him, people don’t live long enough for him to get attached. His job will pervasively be a part of his life for… ever. He’ll have to learn to like corrupting humans and not caring, which is troublesome at best.

As a whole he’s come to find that he’s unfortunately rather fond of people. They’re weird and irrational and oblivious, yet observant and oddly reasonable at times. Very contradictory creatures, humans. Perhaps that’s why he enjoys them so much.

So when people keep mentioning a nutter building a giant ark back east of Eden, he decides to pop over to see what the ridiculous creatures are up to now and find out what an ark is. Disappointingly, it’s just a large boat. The size is impressive, sure, but it was hardly worth the trip. He should’ve known better — humans are also prone to flights of fancy that don’t make sense to anyone but themselves. Who knows, maybe there’s a way he can milk a bit of low-grade evil out of this situation before he leaves again.

“Who’s the meshuggener building the big boat?” Crawly asks a nearby villager, jabbing his thumb at the ark in question.

“Ah, Noah and his sons,” the man replies. “He says it is God’s will.”

“Mentioned something about bringing animals aboard,” another man adds.

“What’s he gonna do with God and a floating farm?” Crawly asks, more rhetorically than anything. There are a million bad things that could happen involving Earthly animals; he can’t think of nearly as many _Godly_ things.

And late that afternoon, while Crawly is in the middle of getting a scribe drunk and telling him about current events in Abraham that actually took place in Uruk, his suspicions are confirmed.

 _FLOOD TOMORROW, BE ON THE ARK,_ Beelzebub says cryptically in his head, the delivery of instructions interrupting Crawly’s conversation.

Crawly’s face screws up in confusion. _What’s a flood?_

_VIOLENT WATER. ACT OF GOD. NO MORE QUESTIONZZZ._

“Violent water?” Crawly asks aloud.

“Wha’s tha’?” the intoxicated scribe asks, pen posed over his tablet in sloppy anticipation.

“Huh?” Crawly says, coming back to Earth. “Oh, nothing; I’m done with you. Got work to do — you should try writing poetry.”

He leaves with a satisfied grin, off to introduce himself to Noah with the ark before night falls.

✧✦✧

Noah is an easy man to track down — after all, his ark is meant to be ready by tomorrow, so it tracks that he’d be on it. Crawly finds him on a middle deck giving directives to two young men with a frenzied air.

“We need to ensure _every_ seam of this vessel is sealed and water impervious,” he says in a fashion that implies it’s not his first time reminding them of this. “Every corner, every meeting of wall and floor — ”

“I still do not see how we can be sure there are no leaks,” one of the other men interrupts.

“Just look to see that there are no holes or cracks in the wood,” Noah says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “The Lord is on our side, Japheth; we must have faith.”

Japheth sighs like it’s not the first time he’s heard this, either. “Yes, father,” he says flatly, before turning and leaving, staring Crawly down with surprise as he walks past on his way to inspect the ark.

Noah and the remaining young man, presumably another of his sons, wrap up their conversation once they notice Crawly’s presence.

“I will finish preparing the living quarters and then join Japheth.”

“Thank you, Ham,” Noah says, patting him on the back. Ham leaves in the same direction as Japheth, giving Crawly a confused once-over.

“Hello, kind stranger!” Noah greets theatrically, strolling over to Crawly. “What might your name be?”

“Crawly,” he says, smiling widely. “And you must be the infamous Noah.”

“Yes, welcome, welcome,” Noah says. He tilts his head. “What an odd name! What brings you to my humble family this fine day?”

 _What’s wrong with my name?_ Crawly thinks, holding back a pout. “I’ve heard tales of your ark from villages far and wide,” he says faux-reverently. “I would love to know what it is you’re doing for the Lord.”

Noah visibly brightens, his deep red aura crackling like white noise at Crawly’s request. “Not what I am doing for the Lord,” he corrects, putting an arm around Crawly’s shoulders, “but what the _Lord_ is doing for my family and I.”

“Right,” Crawly says, smiling more forcefully to fight a grimace at the unsolicited touch. _Power through, get what you need and go_. “Pray tell, what might that be?”

“Come,” Noah says cheerily, pulling Crawly forward, “come to the uppermost deck, I shall show you.”

“Great,” Crawly says through gritted teeth.

He begrudgingly lets Noah pull him to a ladder that leads to the top of the ark, the man babbling the entire way about the Lord coming to him in a dream and telling him of his family’s righteousness in these indecorous times. He was told to gather cypress wood and build a watercraft to survive a brutal storm, and he only had seven days to do it, etcetera, something or other — Crawly stops listening when pain shoots down his legs while he’s climbing. Why does the bloody thing need to be so _tall?_ They couldn’t have made it long instead?

He hauls himself up the final rungs and winces, hips and knees aching sharply.

“ — been constructing this as soundly as time permits,” Noah continues preaching away, “and I know it’s another test from the Lord for myself and my family. Ham and Japheth have been assisting me with the remainder of the work on the ark while Shem gathers the animals."

“Right,” Crawly says drily, rubbing his hip. “And what happens tomorrow, when your seven days are up?”

“The ark must be ready to shield us from the flood,” Noah says. He walks them to the edge of the deck, just a metre from a sheer drop off the manmade cliff. He gestures widely at the world before them. “The Lord came to me in my sleep and showed me a vision of a raucous storm, water overflowing as when the river levels rise, but without stopping — not for forty days and forty nights.”

Crawly raises a brow at him. This would probably be more dramatic with the accompanying visual, but he can’t stop focusing on _how_ Noah is speaking as opposed to the content of his sermon. It’s clear he wholeheartedly believes what he’s saying, and the description lines up with Beelzebub’s brief message. But the theatrics, the self-involved righteousness — it reminds Crawly of an angel.

It’s _annoying_.

“Sounds like a lot of water,” he says, trying to sound convinced. “What's meant to happen to everyone else?”

“The Lord said my family is the only one to continue on after the flood and repopulate this beautiful land.”

Crawly blinks. _The Lord sayeth **incest**? _he thinks, mildly horrified. “That… wow,” he says, doing his best not to let on to Noah how bonkers he sounds.

“It is my life’s greatest honour,” Noah says, genuinely joyful. “That is my story, kind traveller.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Crawly says reverently, remembering his goal here. “What a gift to know.”

“You are very welcome.”

“I’ll need to be onboard,” Crawly says, smiling widely and clapping a hand on Noah’s shoulder.

Noah looks at Crawly, confused, and then at the hand on his shoulder, like the point of contact burns. “I — I’m afraid that cannot be done,” Noah says, trying to put on the same overly cheery tone from before. “The Lord was clear that only my family and a Watcher were to be onboard.”

A Watcher? That has to be Aziraphale. _What a treat,_ Crawly thinks, suppressing an eyeroll. “I’m sure one more won’t make a difference,” he says amiably, pushing his influence against Noah with a now-practised ease. When you have to consistently convince humans that things like disappearing houses and snake men are normal, you get good at it.

“I — I do not know — ” Noah stammers, blinking rapidly.

His energy is strong and frenzied, and Crawly is regretting not starting off stronger. Now Noah’s going to be weird and suspicious around him the entire time. Humans don’t like the feeling that their own instincts are being restrained and overcome. They can tell something is off, but never what or who.

Crawly pushes harder, fingers digging unconsciously into Noah’s shoulder. “ _Trussst_ me,” he hisses, forcing Noah’s energy back, back until it’s strapped down, overtaken by Crawly’s will and given a false sense of security.

“Yes,” Noah breathes, aura clinging to his form and trembling. “You, er, should board tomorrow mid-morning, when the rain begins to fall.”

“Perfect,” Crawly says, grinning warmly. “I’ll see myself out.”

He lets go of Noah’s shoulder and smacks his back, more forceful than genial, before turning and leaving. The smile drops as soon as he turns away and he purses his lips, paying careful attention so he doesn’t fall in the hole they climbed up through. He slowly climbs down the ladders to the lower deck, taking his time so as not to fall and break his arse.

If what Noah’s saying is true and Aziraphale is going to be involved, this might be worse than Beelzebub’s bare-bones instructions suggested. He needs to find out what’s actually happening from Aziraphale.

Not that he wants to deal with the angel — they haven’t run into each other for a few hundred years now, and it’s been delightful not being called a beast and a hellion at every turn. But it’s not difficult to trick him into giving up intel, and Crawly wants to know what he’s about to walk into.

When he makes it to the ground, the sun has finished setting. He strides out into the darkness, legs aching, and scans the area for any nearby auras. There’s a group of humans not far off, and Crawly can smell beer in their direction.

He could use a drink and something fun to bide his time. Smirking, he slinks off toward them, pushing Noah and his ark to the back of his mind.

✧✦✧

Aziraphale arrives as the next day nears mid-morning, according to Crawly’s angel alarm, which starts buzzing in his core as clouds gather rapidly and occlude the light.

Crawly has been hanging around the ark since the sun rose. It was built close to a local market, so humans have been flitting to and fro all morning, completely ignoring him. They’re amazingly good at looking past wolves in sheeps’ clothing when they feel busy enough.

Luckily for them, Crawly is equally distracted this morning. He’s been laughing at Shem’s efforts to wrestle animals onto the ark — the camels were a real treat. The lions were up next, but the angel’s arrival pulls him away from the free show.

It’s easy to pick Aziraphale out of a swarm of humans. His aura, from a distance, has a soft but massive glow, like his core is so caring that it can’t help but push out, touching as many others as warmly as one can.

 _Gag_. Still, he’s easy to find, hovering around the opposite end of the ark. Crawly falls behind a few swiftly moving humans and uses them as cover to sneak up on the angel.

Plastering on a smile, Crawly pops up beside him. “ _Hello_ , Aziraphale,” he greets, tilting his head into the angel’s field of vision.

“Oh — oh, hello, Crawly,” Aziraphale responds, distracted and seemingly undisturbed by Crawly’s appearance. “How are you?”

“Erm — been worse,” Crawly stammers. He hadn’t been expecting an actual greeting. _Where to go from here?_ He can’t make a joke about the last thing they were both involved in if he wants info, so he’ll go for a time-healed wound. “How about you? Did anyone ever mention the, ah, flaming sword dealio again?”

Aziraphale laughs nervously, finally tearing his attention away from the ark. “Funnily enough, She hasn’t mentioned it since — ” He cuts himself off, clearing his throat. “Anywho. There wasn’t much followup.”

Crawly snorts. “Wild, what you can get away with,” he mutters, mentally noting that whatever he did to Fall must have been worse than giving humans an ethereal flaming sword. “So, what brings you ‘round these parts?”

“You’re looking at it,” Aziraphale says, gesturing to the ark.

“Cheap shot," Crawly mutters, squinting at the massive blurry structure. "Couldn’t resist the siren call of a man off the deep end?”

“Wh — no,” Aziraphale stammers, “I, er, I have to be onboard Noah’s watercraft.”

“Really?” Crawly asks, poorly faking surprise. “What for?”

Aziraphale looks between Crawly and the ark nervously. “I — I suppose it’s no secret,” he says, more to himself than Crawly. “It’s going to be all over this area.”

“What is?”

Aziraphale smiles awkwardly, avoiding Crawly’s gaze. “It seems, er, God’s a bit tetchy,” he says, like he's trying to make light of the situation. “The creation of man hasn’t gone _quite_ according to plan and the humans in this area are… This area has been particularly bad.”

“So…?”

“The Almighty found righteousness in Noah and his family, and decided to use Noah as a… harbinger. Of sorts.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘righteousness’?” Crawly asks, crossing his arms. “They don’t question Her?”

“No — no,” Aziraphale sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He seems much less annoyed by Crawly’s bluntness than usual. “They don’t condone cardinal sins, and they live an ascetic life, devoted to the Almighty. And, what with the new trend of writing to record cultural events and societal drift, the Almighty appears to think it best if the rest of the area is… cleared out.”

“Sounds exactly like what I said,” Crawly grumbles. “So they’re chosen to build a big boat, and then what? Heaven's letting everyone else _drown?_ ”

It’s quiet, then, and Crawly has to squint to see Aziraphale’s head bobbing in a slow, solemn nod.

“Shit,” Crawly exhales. “Seriously?”

“Well, not _everyone_ ,” Aziraphale responds weakly, “just the ones on _this_ continent.”

A pair of playing kids run by them, completely unaware of their fates, and Crawly’s stomach churns. “Even the kids? You can’t kill _kids._ ”

Since Cain and Abel, it'd seemed like Heaven and Hell had both been avoiding any trials and/or tribulations involving children. In any case, Crawly’s influence hasn’t touched a soul under 20 years old since then. No one has requested it, and he isn’t about to choose that. They’re too young, too new; they have too much to learn before they can truly _choose_ bad or good.

“That’s more the type of thing you’d expect my lot to do,” he mumbles, head spinning. “Damn.”

“B-but after,” Aziraphale pipes up, “the Almighty is going to create something new, a ‘rain-bow,’ as a promise not to… drown everyone again.”

“ _Yikesss_ ,” Crawly says, “do you hear yourself right now?”

“I wouldn’t expect _you_ to understand,” Aziraphale huffs, with less conviction than Crawly is accustomed to. “But I imagine you’ve been told to be onboard nonetheless.”

“Can’t have the only demon willing to live on Earth go and drown.”

“It would only kill your corporation,” Aziraphale mutters, sounding like he’d rather like that for Crawly right about now.

“Too bad,” Crawly deadpans, “guess I’ll have to live to see the _rain-bow_.”

“I guess you will.”

“Really? You’re not going to try and stop me following the only humans meant to survive this?”

Aziraphale sighs. “It’s not like they wouldn’t just send you right back up once the waters cleared anyway,” he says, “and I’m not in the business of inflicting unnecessary violence.”

Crawly opens his mouth to respond as an icy raindrop splashes against the crown of his head. He gazes upward, confusion and anger plain on his face as the droplets start falling.

Aziraphale clears his throat, discomforted. “It seems as though it’s time to board,” he says, clearly trying — and failing — not to sound miserable.

“S’pose so,” Crawly mutters, running a hand through his hair to disperse the water.

They wander toward the ark, weaving through the crowd. The humans’ auras brush against Crawly, their lives touching his, some of them never to touch another after. It takes the wind out of Crawly imagining them all… gone.

 _Not all_ , he reminds himself. _Just the ones on this part of the planet._

A growing roll of thunder rapidly approaches, but Crawly’s brows furrow when he realizes he can feel it more in the ground than the air. What, is the ground going to split and swallow up the humans, too?

It’s an escaping animal instead, which misses them by a hair’s breadth. Crawly’s arms swing around as he teeters; once he catches his balance, he glares after the animal, its glittery, iridescent aura escaping into the desert.

“Oi, Shem!” he shouts, pointing after it. “Your bloody unicorn nearly discorporated me!”

“Oh, it’s quite spry,” Aziraphale comments, not moving to help.

“Eh, it’s gone,” Crawly mutters as the unicorn disappears with a twinkle. “At least he’s got another one.”

Aziraphale shoots him a confused look, but says nothing as they continue on to board the ark.

To put it lightly, it smells like arse. More specifically, two of every stinking local animals’ arses, all shoved into one space. Crawly gags, pressing a fist over his mouth. It did _not_ smell like this yesterday — the animals are nearly all onboard now, though.

“Oh _my_ ,” Aziraphale comments, equally as disgusted.

“ _Ngk_ ,” Crawly manages. He swallows hard and keeps his mouth clamped shut so he doesn’t take in another whiff. _Not like I needed to ‘see’ today,_ he thinks grumpily.

“Well,” Aziraphale mutters, “I should find Noah.”

“ _See ya_ ,” Crawly hisses through his teeth.

Aziraphale goes, leaving Crawly already miserable and alone. _This oughta be fun_ , he thinks, clenching his teeth so hard that they crack. At least he doesn’t need to breathe for any reason outside of comfort, and there won’t be much to see soon, either.

✧✦✧

Crawly doesn’t like boats. This would have been helpful information to know prior to boarding one, but you can’t be ready for everything.

It takes nearly an hour for the water to rise enough to lift the boat. When it does, it lurches and rocks sporadically, throwing him off balance and making it extremely hard for him to navigate. He nearly falls down a ladder hole at one point and decides he is officially _over_ sea life.

And that’s not even to mention the muffled shouts of despair and death outside. The longer it rains, the more intense the storm rages, and the more desperate the cries grow. He’s grateful for every crack of thunder and wail of wind that overpowers their cries. It’s hard to keep track of passing time, but it’s been long enough that Crawly feels the temperature in the ark drop as night falls.

_Forty days and forty nights._

One could claim it’s a mercy this is only happening in a concentrated area, but Crawly can’t stop thinking about the sheer number of lives extinguished below the ark already. There are — were — thousands of them; they’ve had a millennia to populate, it’s not like wiping out a village back in the day.

_Is that the point?_

Crawly’s stomach turns, the stench of the animals and his macabre thoughts starting to get to him. Demons don’t mourn, don’t get nauseated imagining the graphic deaths of humans.

Demons — thanks to Crawly introducing them to it — _do_ drink, though. He’ll drink his way through this. Terribly rude that he wasn’t given enough time to stock up on alcohol. He descends a ladder to the lowest deck and finds a stock room full of hay bales for him to lounge dramatically on.

Noah was right about the Almighty being on his side after all — even down here there are no leaks, drips, or ominous puddles. It’s _as God intended._

He drops into a pile of hay with a groan, snapping his finger as he does so a bottle of wine appears in his hand.

“Why like this?” he asks upward, taking a swig right away. His nose scrunches up at the taste, and he smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times. “Was there some lesson they missed? Did you give them a chance?”

He thinks back over the past few centuries. There have been plenty of evil happenings, but aside from Cain and Abel, he can’t think of any events that might have been trials for them. Have their sins stacked up, crossing some unknown line watched by Heavenly bastards? Were Cain and Abel the first of a series of tests he hasn’t been privy to? And then he thinks back further, to the Garden, Eve and Adam, the apple, and himself.

The perpetrators of the original Earthly sin.

“Is it because of me?” he whispers against the lip of the bottle.

There’s no answer from above, as per usual, but Crawly does hear footsteps approaching his brooding space.

“ _Occupied_ ,” he snarls, whipping his head up as they cross the room’s threshold.

“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale answers, “I’ll — ”

“Oh, it’s you,” Crawly interrupts, relaxing. “Thought you were one of the humans. S’fine.”

“Right,” Aziraphale responds. “Well, apologies, I’ll see myself out.”

“Stay if you want,” Crawly says, flopping onto his back so he can scowl at the Heavens. “Just drinking and sulking.”

Aziraphale sighs. “That sounds rather nice,” he says, walking the rest of the way into the room, oil lamp in hand. He sits on a hay bale next to Crawly, who hands the wine over wordlessly.

“My,” Aziraphale says after taking a sip, licking his lips, “that’s, ah — ”

“Different, yeah,” Crawly says, shrugging. “S’not Earthly. Didn’t have time to pick any up.”

Azirphale hums. “Well, if it does what it’s meant to,” he says, handing the bottle back. “You seem to be in quite a mood.”

Crawly grunts, drinking. The only good thing about conjured wine is that the bottle never runs out.

“Are you really… upset over this?” Aziraphale asks cautiously.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Crawly spits, wine dribbling down the side of his mouth, “I’m not _that_ blind, I can see it’s an upsetting situation.”

Aziraphale gives him a puzzled look. “I just thought, er, that you couldn’t _feel_ , really.”

“ _Fucking Hell_ , Aziraphale.”

“ _No_ ,” Aziraphale insists, “I mean practically — physiologically, as a demon. I’m not trying to be rude, Crawly, I promise. I’m genuinely interested.”

Crawly glares at him. “You need to drink more,” he says, shoving the bottle at Aziraphale. “You’re rude sober.”

“I could say much the same for you,” Aziraphale responds amiably. “Sorry — truly.”

“S’fine,” Crawly sighs. “Yes, I’m actually upset over this. It’s upsetting.”

Aziraphale drinks, and Crawly watches the shadows cast by the oil lamp on the wood above them.

“I thought demons were supposed to relish in widespread anguish,” Aziraphale says, passing the bottle back.

Crawly shrugs. “Guess I’m _special_ ,” he mutters, bitterness seeping into his tone.

“Do you… like them? Humans?”

Sitting up, Crawly sighs again. “Yeah, in a way,” he admits begrudgingly. “I mean, they’re gross and they spend all day doing nothing, but they don’t deserve —” he gestures widely, wine sloshing, “ — _this_.”

There’s a crack of thunder, as if to support his point — or, considering its source and motivation, to refute it.

“That’s… rather sweet of you,” Aziraphale says, befuddled. His aura buzzes delightedly and warms Crawly by proxy, like the heat of a mild desert evening radiating off a basking rock and making his skin tingle.

“ _Ssshut up_ ,” he hisses, pushing the wine back at Aziraphale. _Sweet?_ It doesn’t sit right — he has no clue how else to respond. The only other compliments he’s received came from Lucifer, the contexts of which nauseate him even in the comforting presence of his drinking partner’s aura.

Aziraphale chuckles. “Sorry,” he says, unapologetic. “It’s surprising to hear that you care about them as a whole. I knew you were fond of Cain, but I figured — well.”

“Ngk,” Crawly responds, the alcohol setting in more heavily and making his head swim. “Seriously, Aziraphale, _be quiet_. I do _not_ need anyone down there hearing an angel saying I care or calling me — _that_.”

“Right,” Aziraphale murmurs, and the warmth of his aura pulling away leaves Crawly’s hair standing on end.

The angel takes a lengthy drink. His reaction almost makes Crawly laugh — he’s got no idea what Hell is actually like, and every tidbit of real information sends him spiralling. It’s pretty funny.

“S’it really gonna rain forty days and nights or whatever Noah said?” Crawly asks, steering as far away from compliments as possible. “I think they’re all, you know…” He makes an unfortunate gesture and Aziraphale grimaces.

“Forty? No, _fourteen_ ,” Aziraphale says. “One fortnight. He must have misheard. I’m sure a great deal are lost already, but the Almighty wanted to be… thorough.”

“Woof,” Crawly mutters.

“Can I as—ask you another question?” Aziraphale requests, hiccoughing and handing the wine back. “You said something earlier that’s really been bothering me.”

Crawly snorts. “Most of what I say bothers you.”

Aziraphale sniggers. “Well — yes — but something in particular.”

“M’kay?” Crawly thrusts the bottle at him.

“You said to Shem that it would be fine that they only had one unicorn on the ark,” he says.

Crawly furrows his brow. “And?”

“And the purpose of gathering the animals was to reproduce them to replenish their species after the Flood.”

“ _And?_ ”

Holding back a laugh, Aziraphale asks. “Do you still not understand how reproduction works on Earth?”

Crawly furrows his brows, confused, before he understands what Aziraphale is talking about. “No — no, you said it could be one _or_ two!” he insists.

Aziraphale breaks down giggling, clutching his stomach, while Crawly shouts his protests. “You said it could be either! You said it could be two or one, or a whole lot of them!”

“No — I _didn’t!”_ Aziraphale wheezes. “I said _sex_ could involve anywhere from one to multiple partners, not that mammals were capable of reproducing asexually like _plants_.”

Crawly opens his mouth to argue, then stops when he realizes Aziraphale is right.

“All right, fuck you,” he says, sneering and rolling his eyes.

Aziraphale lets out a few more stuttering laughs, wiping his eyes. “ _Oh_ , Crawly,” he sighs.

Crawly huffs and takes a swig of wine. “‘S’not easy being a vessel imbued with universal knowledge _and_ only a half-functioning memory,'' he complains. “And what’s your excuse for not knowing anythin’, then?”

Aziraphale giggles, but deflates. "Guess I'm just a bit of a noddy."

"A what?"

"A tomfool," Aziraphale says.

"An idiot?" Crawly clarifies.

"Thanks," Aziraphale mutters.

"No — I wasn't calling you one!" Crawly says. “Since when are you an idiot? You’re a walking rolodex of lessons no one asked for.”

Aziraphale sighs, taking the wine back. “I thought I could rationalize why the Almighty is — doing _this_ —”

“Drowning the original batch of humans to rid the species of imperfection,” Crawly supplies.

Aziraphale shoots him a glare. “To prevent Hell’s ideologies from taking over,” he corrects.

“Potato, potahto — go on.”

“It is _not_ — oh, nevermind,” Aziraphale huffs, taking a deep drink. “Anyhow, I thought I could rationalize this, but…” He trails off, gulping audibly. “Gosh, I feel _quite_ sick over the entire matter.”

Crawly blinks a few times, trying to recall what line of conversation brought them here. “And… not being able to rationalize the death of thousands of humans makes you an idiot?” he puzzles aloud.

Aziraphale groans, clearly agitated by Crawly’s inability to understand. “Nevermind,” he grumbles miserably.

“No — no, hang on,” Crawly insists, “throw me a bone, m’drunk and… a demon. I don’t get it — the ‘you being an idiot’ part.”

“I’m an _angel_ ,” Aziraphale laments. “A Heavenly vessel, someone who should _naturally_ understand why action like this is being taken. Instead I’m — I’m drinking and bemoaning to a _demon_ about it. Have I lost myself? The Lord? Will I be forced to — to — ?”

“Nah,” Crawly says, burping. “No, you won’t Fall, if that’s what you’re saying. They haven’t sent anyone new down for a few centuries.”

“Really?”

“Mm,” Crawly grunts. It’s true, annoyingly — after the first wave, Crawly included, angels stopped falling. He only knows this because he overheard Beelzebub and Leviathan arguing about whether or not it was a tactical move. He didn’t stick around to see who broke first and started attacking the other in frustration. “S’far as I know, anyway.”

Aziraphale relaxes, relieved, but tenses right back up. “Nevertheless, I — I find myself… questioning — internally, of course — things that I ought not to be questioning. I shouldn’t be questioning _anything_.”

“Because it’s all _ineffable_?”

“Presumably, yes,” Aziraphale says wearily. “So this — this mass —”

“Murder.”

Aziraphale whines, rubbing his forehead roughly. “ _Demonstration_ ,” he tries to correct.

“Tha’s worse,” Crawly says, grimacing.

“Hell, it _is_ ,” Aziraphale whimpers. “I should be able to hold up against something like this. My faith in the Lord is supposed to carry me through. I should be stronger, more like Uriel and Gabriel.”

Crawly snorts. “Gabriel’s a wanker.”

“You’ve met him?” Aziraphale asks, tilting his head.

“Huh,” Crawly mumbles, furrowing his brow. “Must’ve done. Before.” He shrugs, bringing the wine back to his lips. _Before_ , he thinks drunkenly. _Neat!_

“Listen,” he says, sitting up straighter so he can concentrate and form a coherent sentence. “What’s it matter that you can’t handle somethin’ like this? It’s — it’s bad, Aziraphale; you’re an angel, you don’t like bad shit. ‘Sides, you’re basically, like, the human race’s guardian angel at this point, and your — your _charges_ , or whatever, are being exterminated. I think it’s okay for you to be, y’know, sad.”

“What do you know?” Aziraphale tries helplessly. “You’re —”

“A demon, yeah,” Crawly interrupts, already fed up with _that_ branch of conversation. “Can we not do this? Every bloody time I try to have a talk with you, we get here; can we skip it? Can you jus’ give yourself permission to listen to me for once?”

Aziraphale goes quiet, and when he stays that way Crawly takes his chance to continue. “You’re an angel ‘n you’re meant to have your faith, but faith shouldn’t explain away… _this_. There’s thousands of ‘em now, how many have died tonight? S’a damn shame. Damn shame.”

Crawly clears his throat awkwardly, blinking back tears as he tosses back more wine. He got choked up at the end there, and right in front of an angel. How _embarrassing_.

It’s silent between them for a long moment, the air disturbed only by distant sounds of the storm raging outside.

“I’m going to go and check on the humans,” Aziraphale responds steadily, rising to his feet and picking his oil lamp back up. “Thank you, Crawly.”

He walks out just like that, leaving Crawly baffled. “You’re welcome?” he murmurs to the empty room. “Progress, I s’pose.”

Shaking his head, Crawly lays back on the bale of hay as he had before Aziraphale showed up, and before long the muted roar of howling wind and rain lulls him to sleep, his magically unspillable bottle of wine hugged to his chest.

✧✦✧

_Tonight, the typically mild shadows of Crawly’s dreams are strikingly vivid. While light and sensation are usually there, playing tricks on his subconscious mind, in this dream he also sees auras and hears voices, all familiar, set among sights seen through impaired eyes over the years._

_People chatter around him nonsensically, none of them speaking a real language. Their tones start out amiable but quickly turn menacing; the voices become angry, the energies violent, and other discomforts circle him gradually until he’s surrounded. It’s deeply confusing, and he’s rapidly overcome by a state of disorientation and dread._

_And then the nonsensical element disappears. He hears the voices of the few humans who have found him out over the years — the ones who threatened or attacked him, and the ones who begged for mercy or forgiveness._

_Cain, forever a teen in his mind, wailing in his lap._

_Aziraphale, enraged, that terrifying glimpse at his true form with all-knowing eyes boring into Crawly’s core, dissecting him._

_The jeers and cries of the Dishonourable Court, mocking and degrading him endlessly. The frenzied buzz of flies follows him, everpresently watching. Panic sets in, his heart pounding in his ears. The disgusting slime of demonic auras gathers beneath his feet, sucking him down at a torturous pace like acidic quicksand, pricking all over his body, stinging pins and needles. Burning, putrid gunk fills his every orifice as he sinks._

_He thrashes, but his movements are slowed by the viscous liquid. He chokes on it, hands flying to his throat at horrific half-speed. He sinks, down, down, until the drowning sensation ends as his knees hit hard, stone ground._

_Then the slime is gone from his body, replaced by rough, immovable hands gripping him all over. They pin him on his knees, bend him backwards, and jerk his head back sharply. He opens his mouth to cry out in pain, but flies swarm inside. Tears stream down his face as he chokes, disembodied hands crushing his limbs, flies burrowing into his lungs._

_The hands on his face shift, and fingers pry his eyes open to the sigh of a dark, inhuman figure looming over him. It leans in closer, clawed hands reaching for his face, and presses its thumbs to his —_

Crawly wakes with a frantic gasp and a phantom burning in his eyes. He touches them softly with shaking hands, slightly relieved at the feeling of long-healed scar tissue.

And then he pitches to the side and vomits — another Earthly first, how _refreshing_. The alcohol burns as it comes up, bringing elements of the nightmare back with another violent wave of nausea.

He coughs and sputters when his stomach is finally empty, wiping at his mouth violently until the sensation of flies crawling on his tongue disappears.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers, breath trembling. “What the _fuck?”_

 _Horrifying_ is the only word bouncing around his head right now. Whatever that amalgamation of the worst moments of his life thus far was — horrifying. The hangover settling in? Horrifying. His whole existence, _horrifying._

His hyperventilation eventually slows, and he takes deep, intentional breaths, trying to reorient himself on this plane of existence. When he has the headspace to think about it, he magics himself sober, shuddering at the alcohol rapidly voiding his corporation.

“Fuck,” he whispers again, now exhausted. Rubbing his eyes, he gets up on dangerously wobbling legs, finds the nearest clean pile of hay to lie in, and drops into it with a groan.

“Right,” he croaks aloud. “No more booze before bed.”

He lies there, body heavy but mind active. He can’t tell what time it is down here, and he wants more sleep, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to drift off again. Panic subsided, however, his depleted body overtakes his anxious mind and he’s soon asleep, pleasantly dream-free this time around.

✧✦✧

The next two weeks are unbearable to Crawly. He has no clue how fourteen days can feel longer than a thousand years, but they do.

He hates the ark — he hates being trapped, he hates all the awful animals and their stench, and he absolutely hates Beelzebub for putting him here. It reeks of browbeating (pun intended) — there was enough time to warn Crawly to get on the ark, so there was enough time for him to go back to Hell, which would have been no worse, save the possibility of physical torture. It’s probably just fun at his expense, but being trapped leaves him with nothing to do but think.

That damn dream got to him. He’s rattled the entire time because of it. All the worst moments of his life — except the big one, he noticed; even his subconscious doesn’t know why he Fell — were ripped out of the neat little box he packed them into. He can feel them around every corner, lurking in the shadows, and ends up staying in the hay room the entire trip to ignore them.

Aziraphale avoids him after their little chat, which is fine by Crawly. The next person who interacts with him may lose their head. He spends the entire fortnight pacing, turning into a snake so he doesn’t forget how, drinking, and making absolutely certain he’s sober before trying — and failing, repeatedly — to sleep through the rest of the expedition.

The alcohol must have been the reason for the nightmare. He didn’t think twice about falling asleep drunk — why would he have? It simply hadn’t happened yet, which is surprising, as drinking takes up far more of his time than would be healthy if he were human.

He knows better now, but that doesn’t stop his initial mistake from haunting him. Thank badness it’s just two weeks — forty days might have driven him insane. A fortnight might still.

✧✦✧

On the fourteenth evening of violent rain and thrashing wind, the chaos outside the ark begins to wind down.

Crawly, in his desperation to get off the shit-stinking ship, joins Aziraphale and the humans on the top deck as soon as he realizes there’s no rain beating against the wood anymore.

When he gets up top and squints over the side of the ark, however, they’re still afloat, surrounded by an ocean of white static.

“Why the Heaven is it still flooded out there?” he snaps at Noah, nauseated.

Noah puts on his best preacher’s voice. “We must give the Earth time for the floodwaters to recede before life can begin to replenish the — ”

“ _How. Long?”_ Crawly interrupts through gritted teeth.

“Could be another fortnight,” Aziraphale supplies drily.

“ _What?”_ Crawly snarls. He makes a garbled noise of frustration and stomps back to the ladder so he can return to sulking on the lowest deck.

 _For the love of Satan, why couldn’t the Princes of Hell have made me amphibious?_ he wonders disdainfully.

✧✦✧

For once, the universe comes through for Crawly, and the floodwaters recede after three days.

The lurch of the bottom of the ark hitting sand after two days is an unbelievable relief, followed by yet more frustration when Crawly realizes there’s still water up to his waist _everywhere_. It simply wasn’t deep enough to keep the ark afloat anymore.

He sits in the hay room, shivering and cupping Hellfire in his hands to warm up for half an hour before he remembers he can magic himself dry. He’s so angry about it that the Hellfire surges up and singes his eyebrows.

It's a damn good thing he didn't end up out in the floodwaters as a cold-blooded snake thing — hypothermia would have discorporated him in a heartbeat — but he _needs_ to get out of the ark. He can't take it anymore. The animals are constantly hooting and howling and stomping and screeching, there are flies everywhere — and he knows it's because of all the animal shit, but he can't help feeling paranoid whenever he hears buzzing around his head — and if he doesn't feel solid ground under his feet soon, he's afraid he'll never feel balanced again.

To avoid further disappointment and accidental swimming, he decides to tough out another few days before letting himself check outside again, but there's a knock at the threshold only a handful of hours later.

" _What?_ " Crawly snaps at the unwelcome visitor.

"We've just looked outside," Aziraphale’s voice answers. "The water is all cleared up."

Crawly pauses. "All of it?"

"There are a few ponds of rainwater, but that’s to be expected," Aziraphale says. "I thought you'd like the chance to escape before Shem starts blocking up the halls with livestock."

Crawly shoots to his feet, not bothering to conceal his desperation to leave.

"Good on you, angel," he says, genially smacking Aziraphale’s shoulder as he hurries out of the room. He climbs up two ladders faster than he thought possible for his creaky corporation, gritting his teeth through the discomfort, and nearly runs down the ramp off the ark.

" _Oh,_ thank Hell and all the bastards rotting in it," he groans, dropping to his knees in the damp sand the moment he reaches it.

Aziraphale tuts as he catches up. "Really, Crawly, that's a tad dramatic."

"Believe me when I say that cruise was _Hellish_ in the most literal sense."

"My," Aziraphale mutters, "I can't imagine what the smell must be like there."

"You can after that." Crawly pushes himself back to his feet with another groan. " _Eurgh_ , my legs'll be readjusting for _weeks_."

"It _was_ unsettling, floating for so long."

"To say the least. I feel like jelly." Crawly stretches his arms above his head and sighs at the satisfying pops. "Well — now what?"

Aziraphale looks back at the ark and sighs wistfully. "I suppose we start over."

Crawly grunts bitterly. "Least we have some practice now," he says.

"And fewer humans means less work," Aziraphale adds, perking up a bit.

Crawly snorts. "Much less. I'm already bored."

Aziraphale chuckles. "At least we don't have to wait for them to invent alcohol again," he points out.

"Thank — " Crawly begins, cutting off as the jarring screech of an ostrich jolts him out of his skin, " — fuck!"

"Lord!" Aziraphale exclaims as the bird rushes past them and off into the desert. "Gosh, that sound never gets less horrifying, does it?"

"Bloody Earthly nightmares, they are," Crawly huffs. They screeched the entire trip, too, the horrendous things. He brushes clumps of wet sand that the bird kicked up off his robes, grumbling. "Should've drowned them, too."

Aziraphale grimaces. "Bit soon."

"I'm coping," Crawly mutters.

"Yes, well," Aziraphale says, taking a deep breath and letting it out sharply, "I'm going to step away during the disembarkment to avoid being trampled. I suppose I'll be seeing you around."

Crawly grunts again. "No other choice, really."

"No,” Aziraphale agrees. He hesitates, then clears his throat. "Right-o, then — I look forward to working against you again."

Despite himself, Crawly grins. "You mean 'getting plastered with me on the regular’ again."

"It's more _fun_ with someone else!" Aziraphale insists, mildly defensive.

Crawly snickers and shakes his head as he saunters off, waving lazily behind him. "Whatever you have to tell yourself!" he calls back.

Maybe the whole ark business was good for something, after all. But not fucking much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @crvwly and twitter @geminiasis !


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